


Everyone is leaving (I'm still with you)

by noos



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, Mario makes an adorable idiot of himself the entire time, it's amazing, it's horrible, just utter crap okay, my children are hurting me, one of those five time thingies, steer clear of this rn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:23:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4847363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noos/pseuds/noos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"72 ways to get your man back," David reads over Mario's shoulder, loud enough for the entire locker room to hear him. </p><p>or </p><p>Five times Mario receives horrible advice on how to win Marco back and one time he realizes he knows Marco by heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I. David

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, first of all, I really need to stop pretending I have any power over my word count. THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE 5-6K TOPS HOW DID IT TURN INTO THIS CRAP FEST. 
> 
> As usual, I don't have any real excuse for this except that my talks with Elany often take place at inhuman hours and our chats run on very little hours of combined sleep, so disasters like this one is what they result in. 
> 
> Speaking of which, I really need to thank Elany for putting up with my constant ranting and for being an awesome beta. A really, really awesome beta. Thank you, friend, may you be blessed with a shower of götzeus moments on the next international break. 
> 
> I don't know what else to say here. I should probably thank everyone who's ever read/kudo'ed/commented on any of my fics, I never expected to write for this fandom, let alone birth a new fic week in week out. Just, thank you for making me feel at home. I'm just going to shut up now.
> 
> Title from the awesome Peter, Bjorn & John song.
> 
> PS: For those of you interested, there is a horrendous playlist that you can use for this story. Particularly the 4th chapter. You can thank Elany for being awesome enough to do this. [Here.](http://elany.tumblr.com/post/129663638937/dare-to-bare-1-hot-in-herre-nelly-2-fever)
> 
> PPS: Also, please check out [this amazing art Elany made.](http://elany.tumblr.com/post/129667622767/and-my-heart-is-set-on-you-fanart-for-this) It will make a lot more sense if you check it out when you're done with chapter 3. My friend is insanely talented dfkjsldjfl;dsf
> 
> PPPS: She went at it again and posted another two great sketches for chapter 3. [They're here :) ](http://elany.tumblr.com/post/133674879477/inktober-22th-23th)

**I. David**

 

"72 ways to get your man back," David reads over Mario's shoulder, loud enough for the entire locker room to hear him. "Number 44, ruin his reputation until he becomes undateable. Number 45, fake a family death to draw his sympathy? The fuck are you reading, man?" he asks, and Mario knows without having to look that he's doing that weird eyebrow thing he does when he's especially confused. Which, considering the content of the article, David is being more than generous right now by being this chill about it. 

Serves him right for nosing in on something that doesn't concern him. Yet. Because Mario knows David, and as such, he is fully aware that the minute his friend learns what this is about, he will undoubtedly find a way to convince Mario - and the rest of their teammates - that this is his area of expertise. Pretty much like he did when Mario wanted to get his tongue pierced - which he totally did, but no one but Marco found out, and only because he got up close and personal with Mario's mouth on more than one occasion - or when Mario wanted to learn Swahili or when he thought about enrolling back in university. Okay, so Mario's ideas are not always the brightest out there, considering he's a professional footballer with little to no time for himself. Point is, over time he's come to learn that David's only area of expertise lies within the fact that he makes people think everything _is_ his area of expertise. A marketing professional, of sorts.

Now, under any other circumstance, Mario would object at this blatant invasion of privacy. But, it's David, so it's more than expected. And, as it is, he's too focused on that damn article to care, really. Because, while out of the 72 suggested scenarios for getting Marco back the first 45 are dubious at best, Mario's desperate here. 46, actually, because _put yourself in harm's way to force him to imagine his life without you,_ no thank you. Point is, he and Marco have been officially over for some time now, but he still hasn't found it in himself to move on. He still loves him. And, he's come to learn in the past few weeks that life sucks without Marco. It really, genuinely, dramatically sucks. So, he will do what any other reasonable football player who's in love with their ex-teammate would: try to get him back.

"Marco," he finally says in lieu of an answer, mentally scratching number 56 off the list. He is not about to break into Marco's house to wallpaper a picture of them on his bathroom wall. Although, unsurprisingly, he knows exactly which picture he would hypothetically use.

"Marco?" David repeats not unlike a parrot, taking a seat on the bench next to Mario, his eyes never leaving the smartphone. "Marco writes borderline psychotic self-help articles?" 

"Yes, and he occasionally joins Oprah on her show," Mario deadpans, already fed up with this conversation. He can feel his eyes roll so far in the back of his head that he worries for a second one of his eyeballs is going to get wedged somewhere inside that brain of his. He looks up just in time to see Thiago and Thomas reaching their bunks right in front of him, towels wrapped around their waists as they fish out clothes from their bags. "No, dumbass," he continues, sighing to himself and surrendering the phone over to David. "I'm trying to find a way to get back with Marco."

Mario can see Thomas and Thiago both look up at the same time, a few of their other teammates' ears perking up at the new information, but he can't bring himself to even care how pathetic he's being. He misses Marco and it's not like nobody can see it. They all know. It's just the first time they hear it somewhat confirmed out loud. 

"And you think holding his pet hostage will help you do that?" Thiago mutters, hovering over David's shoulder and nearly pressing his nose to the screen.  

"Marco doesn't have a pet," Mario argues weakly because he's not about to discuss the pros and cons of this particular suggestion. On the one hand, animal cruelty is a nope nope _nope,_ but then again, it's debatable whether or not this would work on someone like Thomas, for example. Mario's pretty sure Thomas would trade Lisa for one of his horses. Or that Lisa would trade him for one of her horses. Seriously, thank whoever the fuck had a hand in getting those two together, a lot of lives have been spared because of that.

"And that's your only concern, here?"

"Ugh, I'm obviously not going to hold a pet hostage, David," Mario groans, burying his face in his hand. He loves his friends but why do they have to butt in every one of his affairs? "I just miss him, okay? And I'm desperate enough to google ways to try and get him to like me again."

"Marco never stopped liking you, Mario," Thomas reasons, and Mario looks up at him with his eyebrows knitted together. Things are definitely going to shit if he's able to use words like Thomas and reasons in the same sentence. "He's just bitter because you chose an admittedly awesome team over him."

"And he remembered that two years after my initial move?" He snorts, rubbing his temples and trying to soothe the headache that's slowly taking over.

"No, he just got sick of pretending it didn't bother him," Thomas shrugs, pulling a pair of red Bayern-issued sweats on and seating himself on Mario's other side.

"So you're saying I have no hope of getting back together with him," Mario mumbles, shoulders slumped in defeat as he fiddles with his fingers in his lap. It's somewhat pathetic, but Mario can really feel something in his chest ripping apart at the thought of never being able to kiss Marco ever again.

"Absolutely not," Thomas declares with a new zest. "I'm saying we gotta find you ways to remind him of it."

"Ones that hopefully don't include you trying to get him fired so he'll have to depend on you," Thiago picks up, his eyes still trailing on Mario's phone. 

And yeah, okay, here it is, Mario's confirmation that his friends are about to majorly butt in. But. He can't find it in himself to be upset about this. There's nothing he wants more than to be with Marco again, and let's face it, he needs all the help he can get. So what if that help consists of a self-proclaimed love doctor, a horse-person and an overgrown child. He is really desperate here, and stop judging his friends, he likes them on most days.

"So what do you suggest?" Mario asks, taking a deep breath and watching David's face light up knowing they've just landed their new gig.

"Why, a romantic dinner of course," David announces, zipping up his red duffel and standing up straight. "Some good food, decent music, candles and incense to fragrance the air and voilà, back in Marco's pants it is."

"There's gotta be something better than a romantic dinner, David," Thiago argues but Mario's too busy choking on air.

"Leave the planning to the expert," David insists, and three things happen at once: Thiago rolls his eyes, Thomas groans very audibly and Mario doesn't do anything but continue to make weird noises that somewhat resemble something a squirrel would make if it got its tail stuck in a particularly nasty hole. 

"This isn't about sleeping with him," Mario interjects weakly when he finally remembers what words are, and he's pretty sure his cheeks are getting more flushed by the second.

"Oh come on, Mario," Manu says from all the way across the room. "We've all heard your screams through hotel walls all over the world. This is very much about sleeping with him." He raises his eyebrows pointedly and it's the return of hole-stuck-squirrel-Mario, and really, did he say his cheeks were flushed? He clearly meant they were on fire. 

"Okay, so it's a little bit about sleeping with him," Mario admits and Thomas snorts next to him.

"Well, David's idea is not that bad," Thomas decides. "It won't hurt to give it a try."

"Yes, thank you Mülli," David nods at his friend not unlike the dating Yoda he clearly sets himself up to be. "It is a good idea," he reaffirms, holding out his hand to Thiago and smiling victoriously as his boyfriend groans but takes his offered hand nonetheless. They starts walking away, only stopping when they're near the exit to wait for Thomas and Mario.

"Let's go, kid," Thomas tells Mario as they gather their bags and follow them out.

"Well then, this decides it," David announces when they're in the parking lot. "Operation Catch the Llama is officially on."

\-----

And this is how Mario finds himself trying to gather the courage to call Marco for the next three days. It's literally all he does when he's not in training. Pick up his phone, type up a text, change his mind and type up the number he knows by heart, stare at the dial button for a few minutes, chicken out and throw his phone away, watch Food Network for a few minutes, rinse and repeat. 

When he finally manages to put his phone to his ear on Thursday night, he's too distracted by the pretzels being baked on TV to realize what he's doing, and by the time he does, it's too late to back out. 

The phone rings a couple of times during which Mario is sure he's showing symptoms of a heart attack, but before he can hang up and drive over to the hospital, the call's picked up and Mario's now convinced his brain's running low on oxygen.

"Marco Reus' phone," someone answers on the other line, voice filled with laughter, someone who's very clearly _not_ Marco. "This is his dashing best friend. How can I help you?" 

Mario only has a moment to panic before he ends the call and throws his phone away. There are so many things wrong with this picture that Mario wants to either cry or possibly take up knitting. Because the Marco Reus he knew would never ever let anyone answer his phone. And the Marco Reus he knew only had one best friend. And he's currently sitting in his living room in Munich, weighing in the pros and cons of knitting a reindeer Bayern sweater for Thomas.

He's still hyperventilating and deciding on exactly which shade of red to use when his phone springs to life on the couch next to him, making Mario jump out of his skin. 

He doesn't even have to look at the screen to know it's Marco. He takes a deep breath, shuts his eyes for a second, reminds himself that if he scored the winning goal of the World Cup final then he can very much ask his ex out. Or in, but he's not being picky here.

He doesn't say anything when he presses the phone to his ear, breathing somewhat loudly and trying to stop thinking about that ugly sweater and all the matching color possibilities. 

"Sunny?" Marco asks on the other end of the line and it's enough to spin Mario's world upside down. It's in this moment that he realizes exactly what he's about to do. And oh fuck, he really needs to sit down. Except. He is sitting down. Shit. Lie down, maybe, he thinks as he stretches his limbs until he's flat on his back, staring at his ceiling.

 _Sunny_.

He's missed being called that.

"Hey, Marco," Mario whispers, swallowing halfway through, already fed up with lying down. He gets up rather quickly, making himself a little dizzy in the process before nervously walking over to that hideous beige lamp Julian got him for Christmas. 

"Did you call me?" Marco asks over the phone, and Mario knows that wherever he is, Marco's fingers are probably nervously drumming some half-assed tune on the closest smooth surface. "Because Auba answered my phone, and I'm not sure, I think you must've gotten disconnected."

"Yeah, um, yeah," Mario agrees, nodding studiously, fingers playing with the gold accented fringes decorating the lamp. And okay, wow, those are especially hideous. "I don't know what happened there."

"Yeah," Marco agrees as well, and Mario knows without the shred of a doubt he's nodding too. 

It's quiet for a few seconds before Mario swallows again and takes a deep breath.

"How are you?" He asks when he finds his voice again. _I've missed you_.

"I'm, yeah, pretty good," Marco tells him. A beat. "You?"

"Yeah, um, same," Mario mutters uselessly, twisting one of those horrendous gold strings around his finger. He pulls a little harder than intended on it, and ends up nearly knocking the lamp off the table. He reaches out to steady it just in time, knocking down his phone and the small stack of FourFourTwos nearby in the process. "Shit!" He whispers to himself, lunging for the phone when he's sure that fringed disaster will hold, picking some magazines up on his way and bumping his head on the table when he straightens up. "Fuck!" He cries out a little louder, throwing the magazines back on the table and feeling his head up. 

"Mario? Are you okay?" He can hear Marco on the other line, and his voice is both worried and confused. "Sunny?"

"Yeah," Mario squeaks, cringing a little before settling back on the couch, nearly breathless with all that effort. "No, I'm- it's all good," he mumbles, racking his brain for an excuse. "Some, um, cat was causing a ruckus outside my window."

"You live on the eighteenth floor."

"Yeah," Mario agrees, groaning inaudibly and contemplating shaving his head as punishment for his inadequacy. "It's a surprisingly agile cat," he gets out in one breath, trying to go for surprised, and Marco snorts on the other end of the line. It's not exactly an attractive sound to make, but somehow, it makes Mario feel better about himself and this whole thing. "Hey," he tries again, closing his eyes and willing himself to pull his shit together, "so, I'm calling because we haven't seen each other in a while, and I, um, wanted to see if you were up to coming over tomorrow night."

"To your place?" Marco asks, sounding a heck lot more surprised than Mario would've liked. They were in a relationship for a year and have been friends for a lot longer, it's not exactly unheard of.

"Yeah," Mario says, nodding to himself again,"like a get-together of sorts, since you're going to be in town a day early, and we haven't seen you in a while."

_Great, Götze. Genius. Why not give him the same excuse another ten times?_

"Yeah," Marco repeats, and Mario wonders if he can count how many of those they managed to release into this ridiculous conversation. "Right, sure. Sounds like a, yeah, a good idea." 

"Great," Mario breathes, smiling widely to no one in particular. Maybe David is smarter than any of them give him credit for. "I'll see you tomorrow, I guess."

"Oh." He sounds kind of surprised at the abrupt ending to their conversation. "Yeah, sure, man. We'll be there. See you."

Mario doesn't want to hit the end button, he really doesn't, and it's so damn pathetic, but he also doesn't want to make this any worse than it needs to be, so he just whispers a bye before ending the call. He lies back on the couch, staring at the ceiling for the longest time with a stupid grin on his face before he picks up his phone again and looks through his chats until he finds the group he's looking for. It was David's stupid idea to call it Operation CTL, but Mario can only grin when he sends his message.

_Contact has been made._

_\-----_

He doesn't actually manage any sleep that night and he is a complete and utter mess the next day. Which is saying a lot because, as Thiago so unhelpfully supplies, Mario is nearly constantly a disaster waiting to happen, so to manage to make that seem normal requires a special brand of panic. Mario squints at him when he says that, trying to imagine what Thiago's head would look like attached to spike before he reminds himself that he's not a violent person. Besides, what does that Spanish pancake know anyway, he's dating David Alaba.

Surprisingly though, his higher than average stress-levels result in him doing a great job in training that morning and securing him a spot in the starting lineup for the next game. Which is against Dortmund. The team where Mario played before and where Marco currently plays. Oh fuck, he needs to lie down again.

He doesn't get to do that though, because as soon as he's home, he starts pacing around his kitchen like a madman. Possibly because Mario, in an effort to put more, well, effort into this dinner, decided that cooking Marco's favorite dish is the way to go. Only problem is, Marco's favorite food is homemade goulash. Which is not exactly a prime meal for Mario's first time cooking, but fuck this, if Thomas can score a goal with his butt, then Mario can definitely cook a 3-hour-meal.

He looks up a few tips online, tricks to get the meat just right, and the seasoning and the mashed potatoes, closes the tabs with flourish when he's satisfied with what he reads. He then pulls out the recipe he had his oma write him when he visited her yesterday, fixing the paper up on the fridge with one of those promotional FCB magnets and gets to work, slicing the beef. It's slightly disgusting at first, with Mario trying to work the raw meat with kitchen utensils, but he eventually gives up and digs into it using his hands, cutting and dicing until he's satisfied with the result. He puts his iPod on shuffle before he moves on to the tomatoes and the onions. He thinks it very appropriate that Adele's _Someone Like You_ starts playing when he's shedding his weight in tears while slicing the onions. He can hear his phone buzzing in the background, knows it's David yelling out instructions on that stupid group of theirs, but he's too focused on adding all the ingredients to his pan to care, the meat and the tomato paste and the seasoning, trying to figure out what a healthy dash of ground paprika translates to. He ends up scooping three tablespoons of the sweet spice and deciding that's enough of a healthy dash for the day. His potatoes are cooked by the time he covers his pot to leave it to stew for a few hours, and he absently hums the tune to the Weeknd song playing in the background as he mashes them up. It's almost 2 when he's done, and he decides that gives him plenty enough time to let the meat cook properly and get ready for his date.

He turns his iPod off and moves to the living room to lie on his couch. He feels pretty exhausted, the morning's training coupled with his cooking session and the lack of sleep taking their toll on him. His phone keeps pinging as he stares unseeing at Jules' lamp and he's kind of really hungry, but he's way too tired to even look at any of the messages or make himself something to eat. So he silences his phone instead, Marco's tattoos under his fingers the last image he thinks of before he surrenders himself to sleep.

\-----

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. VIUUUUU. VIUUU-

Mario startles in his sleep, jumping off the couch and landing on his tailbone in phenomenal fashion. And fuck, it really fucking hurts, but there are more important things right now like figuring out where this horrible noise is coming from. And what that awful smell is- shit. Shit shitshit _shit._ The goulash. Marco's goulash. _Shit_.

Mario runs over to the kitchen in complete panic, more alert than he'd ever hope for, considering he literally woke up less than a minute ago. He manages to make it over to the stove in one piece, nearly burning his fingers off as he dives in to retrieve the pot and place it on the cooling rack. Thankfully, he remembers oven mitts just in time to stop himself from melting his extremities off. He throws the skillet on the marble counter before he runs over to stop the alarm from screaming and rests his head against the wall trying to catch his breath and not cry over his ruined effort when the alarm stops wailing.

He only pulls away to look at the clock. It's 6:15, and Mario majorly overslept. Marco's going to be there in a little under two hours, and there's no way he can make another dinner in time. He takes a few careful steps towards the burnt pot to examine the damage after a few moments, and he blames that horrible stench for the tear he actually sheds at the sight. The meat in itself, looks perfectly fine, probably as tender as required after all this time. It's everything else that's a right mess. The onions are burnt to a crisp, the sauce nearly gone, and the little of it left is curdled and disgustingly black, and Mario just wants to go back in time right now, or maybe just go sit on top of a volcano somewhere or possibly find his mom and curl himself into her lap and- wait. His mom. _His mom._ She always has an extra helping of goulash in her freezer because it's Felix's favorite dish. And oh, yeah, his mom lives in Dortmund. Fuck. Felix though. Felix doesn't. His dorm is a 15-minute-drive from here and Mario knows that little goulash-loving freak always has around six containers full of it in his freezer.

Mario doesn't even think about it when he picks up his keys and phone, jumping into his car as soon as he makes it to the lot. He calls Felix from his car, tells him to set aside two containers for him, and he's back at his house by seven. He throws away the pan that's still on the counter along with its content as soon as he's home, activates his air fresheners as he ladles the goulash into a bowl before he shoves it into his electric oven and sets it up to defrost. The potatoes are still good, so he keeps those on the oven, covering them up to keep them from withering.

He skips over to the bedroom when he's done, takes a quick shower and shaves before throwing on those dark jeans he knows Marco likes so much with a black button down before he goes back to hovering in his kitchen. He sets up the table in his dining room as he waits for the food to finish cooking, lights up some candles and pulls out that bottle of wine his dad gave him that he'd been saving up for a special occasion. He takes the food out when it's done, covering everything up and closing the door to his dining room.

He's fixing up his hair in the mirror a little later, nervously wondering where Marco is, when he remembers that he hasn't actually checked his phone since he fell asleep. He walks over to pick it up off the couch and finds he has 67 messages. He doesn't bother looking at the group chats, opening instead Marco's two messages.

**_Marco - 7:48pm_ **

_Hey, do u want me 2 pick anythin up on the way?_

**_Marco - 8:03pm_ **

_Nvm, we'll be over in a bit._

He's reading the messages over again, wondering what Marco means by _we_ , when his phone vibrates with another message.

**_Marco - 8:23pm_ **

_Buzz me in?_

Mario does as he's told, his palms feeling sweaty all of a sudden, so sweaty that he has to wipe them on his jeans. Marco's here. In his building. Coming up to his apartment. Because they have a date.

He's way too excited about this to even pretend to be cool, so he opens his door way too early and waits for Marco to show up because his reputation be damned, he's an impatient little asshole and the elevator's almost here.

He feels his heart stop when he hears the elevator doors open, and before he can do anything, Marco's rounding the corner, a nervous laugh gracing his features, and he looks so fucking good in his light denim button down and ginger hair that Mario wants to throw up. He can hear voices from somewhere in the hallway, but their eyes lock for a moment, and Mario's too distracted to even care.

Fuck, he's missed him.

Everything comes crashing down the next second, because Mario finally realizes where those voices are coming from. Rounding the corner right behind Marco are Pierre, Nuri and Erik. And yeah, now Mario really wants to throw up.

This is not happening. He can't even fully appreciate the fact that Marco hugs him, because _this cannot be happening._ But it is happening, apparently, and Mario can only force a smile when Nuri asks him where the others are.

"Others?" He asks, trying very hard not to sound like the idiot he is as his friends make themselves comfortable on his couch.

"Thomas? Manu? That new kid, what's his name, Arturo? Marco said you were having a party," Erik explains, typing furiously on his phone. "Jules and Benni are on their way."

"I said we was having a get-together, dumbass," Marco says sheepishly, rubbing his neck nervously, trying to avoid Mario's eyes.

"Right, yes," Mario nods exaggeratedly, mentally kicking himself. How did he not see this coming? "Asshol- shit, I mean, Arturo's not coming, probably, but the others will be here in a bit. You know how David likes to be fashionably late," he continues lamely, trying to muster a smile. "And aren't Jules and Benni supposed to be in Gelsenkirchen right now?"

"They're playing Augsburg away from home tomorrow, so they can make the drive back and forth from there."

"Right," Mario nods, picking up his phone and hesitating for a minute. "You guys, um, make yourself at home, and I'll just, um, I have some stuff to do in the kitchen but I'll be back before you know it." He locks himself in the bathroom with his phone before he dials David's number.

"Are you calling me so I can congratulate you on scoring?" David's voice comes on the other end of the line, and Mario's too relieved that he actually picked up to be aggravated at his less than tasteless question.

"David, I don't give a fuck what you're doing right now, you better make it to my place with a lot of beer and preferably half the team in the next fifteen minutes or so help me-"

"Hold up, hold up," David reasons on the other end of the line and Mario really doesn't have any time for this. "You want me to come to your place?"

"Yes, David, I need you and Thiago and Mülli and as many people as you can get. He thinks I'm having a fucking party, David, and Erik and Pierre and Nuri are already here. The others are coming too," Mario explains and he really feels like crying.

"Shit, we'll be right there," David says before he hangs up, and Mario thinks he must sound really desperate if he managed to get through to him that fast, but he's also never loved David more than in this second.

He leaves the bathroom and heads over to the dining room, closing the door behind him as he blows the candles one by one, throwing one last look at his perfectly arranged table before leaving the dining room. He's just shutting the door behind him when Marco appears in his kitchen, his eyebrows knitted together.

"Did you make some goulash today?" Marco asks, smiling at Mario, and it makes him want to lock himself in his bedroom and not come out ever again because this is not fair. "Because it smells like goulash in here."

"I had some for lunch earlier," Mario lies through his teeth, because he is not about to tell Marco what kind of hell he's been through today, and all for it to backfire this dramatically. His stomach rumbles as if on cue, and Mario remembers he actually hasn't eaten anything since breakfast. "Way earlier today," he says sheepishly when Marco raises his eyebrows at him and chuckles, laughing along with him.

He pulls out his phone and types a message in the group chat.

_Bring some snacks with you. And pizza. And beer. Alot of beer._

"You know," Marco starts out of nowhere after a moment, moving from one foot to the other and looking at Mario from under his lashes, and it's infuriating how much Mario loves him. He hates him, okay? "I hesitated a bit about bringing the boys along," he admits and Mario's eyes widen as he snaps out of it. "I thought for a moment that maybe this was a da- like, that you wanted it to be just, um, just the two of us."

Yes. _Yes_. _Yeeeeees_. That was exactly what it was why did he even think it was a good idea to bring people with him?

"Ha," Mario quips a little bit like a chicken, contemplating gouging either his or Marco's eyeballs out. "Ha ha," he continues, shoving his hands in his pockets and starting to walk out the kitchen. "Imagine how awkward that would've been."

Mario doesn't really know what constitutes as wailing. But right now, he's pretty sure he's _wailing_ on the inside.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_"So? Was it supposed to be a date or not?_

_"Nope. I asked him. He totally laughed it off."_

_"Well, then. I suppose that bottle of wine he hid in his dining room just happened to be there. Along with some fancy ass cutlery. And some candles."_

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	2. II. Thomas

**II. Thomas**

 

Mario spends the next few days trying very hard not to think about the party. So naturally, think about it is all he does. Because, honestly, even Mario had to begrudgingly admit the next day that as far as "get-togethers" go, it was a pretty great one.

Thing is, Mario never for a second expected anything less. After so many drunken encounters with his national teammates, he knew the itinerary by heart. 

Philipp would always kick off the festivities by warning everyone not to get smashed because they have a game/training session/something nobody cared about when alcohol was involved the next day. Of course, said captain would be the first one to join Manu and Thomas in an impromptu round of square dancing when the clock struck 10. Because, for some reason, _Cotton-eyed Joe_ would always mysteriously start playing around this time. This mesmerizing session of "coordinated" dancing always signaled two things: 1. It was at that time that the injured/benched players would bust out the hard liquor (thank fuck he had the sense to keep his dad's wine hidden in the dining room where no one would see it,) and 2. Benni would be wasted enough to start a game of truth and dare. Naturally, like the twelve-year-olds they all clearly are, they would all agree to it. Which would always lead to Erik and Jules dancing around each other until Mats dared them to kiss, after which Jules would always throw up and Erik would always take offense.

(Mario tries not to think about Lewy daring him to kiss Marco. Doesn't want to think about how natural it felt to do that.)

Unfortunately, Basti and Lukas were not there to start awkwardly spanking anyone within a 2-mile-radius at midnight, but Auba more than made up for that when he started belting out Roxette's _It must've been love_ with a little too much enthusiasm. It took Mario a while to figure what he was actually trying to sing, and it's only when David and Boa joined him in one of the most ridiculous moments of Mario's existence that he actually figured it out. He especially loved seeing Thiago so very impressed with his boyfriend's off-key singing.

Other notables absentees were Per who was not on hand to convince Mesut and Mario that if they climb on top of eachother, they could maybe reach his height, and Sami who would usually try to play any instrument he'd find in the area (and boy, would Mario have liked to see him try his hand at the piano.)

Point is, so what if he hadn't had that much fun in a while? He doesn't want to think about it at all, would much rather focus on the photo shoot they're currently doing for the new Fanshop products.

He's standing in the corner with a couple of his teammates watching Jérôme perfect the used-car-salesman look when Thomas materializes out of thin air in a pair of lederhosen and Bavarian checkered shirt, and Mario doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.

"So," he preludes, "I've been thinking. David had the right idea."

"What are you talking about, Thomas?" Mario asks, breathing through his nostrils and keeping his attention strictly on Boa who now looks like he's officially made his first sale.

"The dinner thing," Thomas explains and Mario rolls his eyes. He never expected Thomas would listen to him, and he was clearly right because apparently telling him over ten times in two days that he has no interest whatsoever in ever talking about this did not cut it. "We had the right idea. It just wasn't the best course of action."

"And I have a feeling you're about to tell me what the best course of action is?" Mario mutters, squinting at Seb when he replaces Boa to start modeling lederhosen swimming shorts because yes, apparently that's a thing.

"I love how well you know me," Thomas cries out, startling half the room and throwing one arm around Mario's shoulder.

"For fuck's sake," Mario mumbles, blushing furiously when all eyes turn on him, smiling awkwardly at Seb.

"Ok, so," Thomas continues, ignoring everyone and everything and powering through, "what you need to do is go through today's photo shoot knowing that Marco's going to be seeing these pictures."

"What?" Mario squeaks, taking a step back and looking at Thomas like he just told him the world was out of pretzels.

"Marco will be looking for these pictures," Thomas repeats, and Mario's very tempted to feel his head up right now.

"Marco will not be looking for these pictures," he scoffs, whisper-shouting and glaring at Manu, David and Thiago who suddenly swarm them.

"Yes, he will," Manu agrees, and Mario hates how that stupid giant seems to know everything. It's probably because he's unnaturally tall. He must pick up signals that only flight radar systems can spot. "I caught him going through your pictures on our website that one time Jogi had me room with him."

"You did not," Mario objects pathetically, a surge of hope that he would love to squash flaring in his chest.

"It wouldn't be the first time he's done it," Lewy adds literally out of nowhere, and Mario stares suspiciously at his teammate. His height means he's not to be trusted. "I caught him doing that back when I was still in Dortmund several times."

"It's settled then," Thiago decides next to Mario. "You're sexing the shit out of this shoot."

Mario can't help but cringe at Thiago's words, but when he looks around, everyone seems to be nodding in agreement, and when did Xabi join them?

"Here," Thomas says, patting Mario's shoulder and walking towards the designated area since it's his turn to shoot. "Let me show you how it's done," he adds before he poses awkwardly, and Mario has never in his life seen anyone look more like a horse than Thomas in that moment. He really, really gets every single one of those horse comparisons right now.

"Yeah, okay, maybe not like that," Lewy mutters next to him, taking a step back when Thomas starts dancing some kind of exotic Bavarian two-step.

Mario just stands there staring at his awkward friend as he charms the socks off the photographer, Manu's words on repeat in his head. There's no way that Marco checks out his pictures on Bayern's website. No way in hell. But what if he does? What if his friends are right? Maybe he should listen to them, because lord knows they've all managed to get a lot farther ahead in their love lives than he ever has.

Mario's called up to pose when Thomas is done, and he shakes his head to clear it when he's standing in front of the camera. And just in case his friends are right, he unzips his neoprene jacket in the sultriest way possible (he's never felt more awkward in his life) and he flexes his muscles a little more than he needs to when the photographer asks him to turn his back to the camera and he smiles a little wider when he changes into that letterman jacket later. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_"This is getting ridiculous. You need to stop staring at this or someone is gonna walk by and think you're cheating on us with the enemy_. 

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	3. III. Javi

**III. Javi**

 

They're in the changing rooms that same afternoon when Philipp turns to look at Mario.

"The photo shoot won't have any immediate results because the pictures won't be online for a while, so we better find something else to make it happen in the meantime," he says in his most captain-y voice as he zips up his issued training jacket, and Mario spits out half the energy bar he's currently chewing on, gasping for air when his coughing spell subsides. 

_Not Fips too._

"Tiny captain is right, as usual," Manu agrees from his place on the bench, nodding vigorously as he ties his laces up. "We can't leave things up in the air for that long, we gotta up your chances. 

"We really, really don't," Mario tries weakly, because he's already tired of this. He just spent two hours this morning channeling his inner Fabio, that's already a lot more effort than he thought he would have to make when he decided to try and win Marco back. Besides, when did this turn into a group activity? 

"Yes we do, my little marshmallow," David counters, walking by Mario and ruffling his hair on the way. "We've got no time to lose, we gotta act quick before Marco decides to move on."

Yeah okay, David just said exactly the right thing because Mario can't think about Marco moving on with someone else without becoming irrationally violent and imagining himself plucking that faux-blond gold digger's hairs one by one.

"Maybe you should write him a song," Seb suggests, and Mario rolls his eyes because apparently literally everyone is feeling the need to get involved now. And no, he will absolutely not be writing Marco a song, thank you very much. 

"The last time Mario wrote anything, he plagiarized Itsy Bitsy Spider for his creative writing class," Thiago groans from next to him, and Mario can't even be embarrassed because it's true. "That's not going to work."

"Make him a video where you confess your feelings then," Juan chimes in.

"That's a possibility, but I'm not really sure it's the best course of action," David grimaces and Mario raises his eyebrows at him because apparently David's hired himself as Mario's manager too.

"Try to make him jealous then,"Arjen shrugs as he starts walking out of the room. 

Seriously, are there no adults left in this team?

"You could propose to Ann," Thomas adds next to him. "Or fake-propose," he amends. "Whatever, just make him think you're moving on."

"That is a genius idea," David declares, patting Thomas on the back as they follow Arjen out.

"I guess I'm proposing then," Mario mutters, sighing deeply as Thiago looks sympathetically at him.

"Let's go, amigo," his friend urges in his most reassuring voice, patting his back lightly and guiding them out of the room.

\-----

"No.  _No_. Nope. Nein. No way in hell am I going to pretend to be your fiancée," Ann asserts, shaking her head violently.

"But Ann, we were going to have to get there eventually," Mario tries pathetically, working his puppy-eyed charm.

"That is not going to work this time, buddy," Ann huffs, vaguely pointing Mario's way and he deflates, relaxing his face. "We were only going to do it in a few years if you still weren't ready to come out. I'm too fucking young, Mario, I wouldn't even do this if this was real!" 

"Ann, I need Marco back. I have to make him think I'm moving on," he explains in a low voice, trying to make her see. 

"And you actually think you will achieve that by proposing to me?" Ann snorts unattractively, her eyes never leaving Mario's. "Newsflash, Mario, I was still your fake girlfriend when you and Marco were actually together. He knows this is not real. Do you honestly think it's gonna make him jealous?" 

"I'm out of ideas, here," he tries again. "I've got to find my way back to him."

"Well, you definitely won't by proposing to me," Ann argues. "He already hates our arrangement as it is, you're only going to make it worse," she tries to reason, taking a seat next to him and the couch and gently forcing his chin up until he's looking at her. "Look, Mario, I love you more than I can begin to explain. I know you already know that. And I want you to be happy and I want you and Marco back together because despite his poor taste in clothes, he always made you happy. But I stand by what I said. Maybe you should just be honest with him."

"Ann..."

"But you won't," Ann continues, pulling back a little, "because you surround yourself with the likes of David Alaba and Thomas Müller all day long, it's no wonder you've got no sense of self-preservation," she barks, rolling her eyes. "But I can't agree to this, Mar. I can't be your fake-fiancée because you think it's going to make Marco like you again."

"So what am I supposed to do," Mario mumbles, feeling small and pathetically weak. 

"I don't know, get a dog, maybe."

"What?" Mario asks, his ears perking up and looking at Ann with wide eyes.

"Get a cute, fluffy little blond puppy and take lots of selfies with it," Ann decides, grabbing her clutch off the table and making her way to Mario's door like the professional model she clearly is. 

\-----

"Hello?"

"Mario. Why is there a dog with you in your new Instagram picture? And why are you saying it's  _your_  dog?"

"Because it is. Ann wouldn't agree to get engaged but she let me get a dog."

"And you conveniently decided to call it Woody?"

"You have a horse called Stern des Südens, you're the last one allowed to judge."

\-----

It lasts for exactly 17 hours. Woody is adorable and hyperactive and the ideal counterpart for Mario. But. Mario is a professional footballer. Who has to report to international duty in two days and who gets really sick really fast of him ruining his collection of sneakers, cute as he is. He's put way too much effort and time into that collection to let one little fluffy monster sabotage it.

Felix, on the other hand, looks like he just won the Champions League when Mario gives him the dog.

"Call it an early birthday gift," Mario tells his brother as he starts making his way out of his room. "Take care of Woody for me."

\-----

"Okay, so the engagement thing was a bust, but all hope is not lost," Manu shrugs, walking into the room with a towel wrapped around his waist. "International break is tomorrow, we gotta find you something to do by then."

"Maybe you should do like Sandy did and makeover your look."

There's a long moment of stunned silence where literally everyone from Manu to Lukas, the guy who makes sure their piping is on point, stops to stare. Because Javi just spoke. And Mario's pretty sure even the water he could hear from the showers nearby just stopped flowing. 

"Who the fuck's Sandy?" David finally asks, signaling the return of life to the locker room.

"Sandy, in Grease? This is how she make John Travolta love her," the awkwardly tall Spanish player explains in thick accented German.

"Of course it's got to do with Grease,"Thiago mutters next to Mario, rolling his eyes and getting back to pulling his clothes on.

If there is anything they can always count on Javi to do, it's to bring up Grease somehow. The boy is obsessed with that movie. There is not a song, character or a prop that he doesn't know by heart.

"Why Javier Martinez, I underestimated you," Boa pipes in, patting Javi on the back.

"What are you talking about, Boa?" Thomas asks, clearly annoyed. "Javi's solution is Grease, I think everyone estimated just about right."

"No, Javi's solution is a makeover," Boa barks at Thomas, towel drying his short hair. "Which is not a bad idea at all." 

"I agree with Jérôme. I think you should try that."

If Mario thought the locker room went quiet when Javi spoke before, then he doesn't know how to describe the silence that follows. Because Douglas just spoke. Douglas Costa, Brazilian miracle winger and newly-minted Bayern attacking force just spoke. And told Mario to go for it. Because he apparently understands what's happening? Mario wasn't even sure Douglas knew how to talk. All he's seen him do is glare at other players when his passes are blocked and apologize profusely (but mutely) to his teammates on the off chances he misses his target. But apparently he speaks. And not only that, but he's an invested member of the OCTL. And that settles it for Mario, really.

"You think it's a good idea?" Mario asks, and it takes a moment for everyone else in the room to react because they're all still very much shocked. And Mario really understands. He kinda imagined Douglas' voice would be a lot deeper than it actually is. It's somewhat... unsettling.

"I do," Douglas insists, and Mario flinches. It wasn't just a one-time thing. He actually speaks. "The idea's good and I love Grease."

Mario can't even listen to what Douglas is saying properly because there's a sudden gasp followed by a commotion on the left side of the room. He looks at the source and finds Javi staring at Douglas with wide hopeful eyes, several beauty products littered around him on the floor from where he must've dropped them. 

"You love Grease?" Javi  _shrieks_ , and Mario actually has to take a step back, because in all his days he's know Javi, he's never seen him look so alive. He walks the short steps separating him from Douglas with only one sock on and a pair of Bayern shorts, stopping in front of the shorter man. 

"It's my favorite movie," Douglas admits, looking up at Javi like he just found his place on the team. It's kind of amazing to watch, really, this interaction happening, something level with watching some weird species in its natural habitat on NatGeo Wild.

"I got chiiiiiills, they're multiplying," Javi starts singing really off-key, and no, there's no way in hell Mario's sticking around for that. No thank you. Either way, he's got an outfit to prepare.

"Okay," he declares to no one in particular, picking up his duffel and getting ready to leave the room. He turns the corner just in time to hear Costa pick up the tune. 

"You better shape up, oh oh oh."

\-----

Mario runs to his car as soon as he's out of the training grounds, firing up the engine before any of his friends can think about stopping him to tell him they're coming over. He's got to go home and find a proper outfit for his makeover, and make sure everything's packed and ready for his flight the next day, so he really doesn't need David hovering over his shoulder.

He fires up his laptop as soon as he's home, setting up the proper download link before moving to the kitchen to heat up some leftover pizza. He's only seen Grease once when he was around 5, and aside from his mom singing along to pretty much every song in the movie, he doesn't remember much of it, so he's got a lot of research to do. 

The download's complete by the time he makes it back to the living room, and Mario spends the next two hours clinically observing every detail of the movie. By the time the credits roll, he's wiped out three pizza slices and a chocolate bar, and is sure of two things: his favorite character's Rizzo and he doesn't own a leotard. Nor has he any idea where to get one in the next 12 hours in Munich, which means he's going to have to get creative.

He moves over to his room and starts looking through his closet for something to wear. He examines rows upon rows of shirts and shoes and jackets and layers outfits left and right to find the perfect look for his makeover. He finds the jacket first, and the rest of the outfit is more a stroke of genius than anything else, but suddenly he knows exactly what he's going to do. He calls his hairdresser and sets up an appointment for early the next day, taking the opportunity to pack his bag for the international break and making sure his choice look is folded neatly on top of everything else in the suitcase. 

He spends the next few hours in bed replaying the movie, and by the time the clock strikes 10 he knows half the songs by heart. 

\-----

"Did you do something to your hair?"

"What?" Mario startles, turning from his window seat to look at Philipp.

"Your hair," his captain repeats. "It looks different." 

"Oh," Mario squeaks, self-consciously tugging on his short locks, "um, yeah, it's for, um, the makeover thing."

"Well, it's... nice," Philipp replies, awkwardly staring at Mario's blonder tips.

Mario doesn't say anything, just smiles nervously before turning back to his window. They'll be landing shortly and Mario will have a little less than 30 minutes after they're in the hotel to get ready since the Dortmund group always makes it there later than they do.

He feels himself getting jittery as he walks with Thomas over to the reception counter when they're there, and he grabs his key cards and makes a beeline for the nearest elevator as soon as the hotel patron sorts out their rooms. Hedoesn't even have time to properly look around his bedroom. Hejust busts his suitcase open instead and digs through his clothes, pulling on his black thermal undershirt and pants, the closest thing he's got to a leotard, before looking at his reflection in the mirror. And, yeah, these things cling _really_ tight to the body, it doesn't actually feel like he's wearing anything. He thinks he looks somewhere between a surfer and a male-Sandy, which is not necessarily a bad thing. He pulls on his red high-top sneakers next, before moving to grab the biker leather jacket he's prepared for the occasion. He takes another look at himself in the mirror, and okay, the rational part of him can tell it's not a very good outfit, but Costa said it's a good idea to do this, so pulling a Sandy is what he's going to do. 

He stuffs his keycard and phone into his jacket pocket, wipes the sweat off his face - it's thirty degrees outside, leather jackets are a really bad idea right now but Mario is nothing if not a fighter - and makes his way downstairs. He can see literally every one of his teammates downstairs, Thomas and Boa and Jules and Erik and Mats&Benni and  _Marco_. Someone, he's got no idea who, clears their throat once and suddenly all eyes are on Mario.

He nearly trips on his own feet as he tries to casually make it over to them, spicing up his walk a little, and on the rare occasion he allows himself to look at his friends, their reactions are so confusing, he can't actually tell if they're good or bad. Well, except for Thomas, who's got a grin on his face like a satisfied cat. Boa's staring at Mario with wide eyes, his lower lip quivering a little, and Philipp's brow is furrowed in concentration like he's about to take a free kick. Manu's face is perfectly blank from his perch next to Thomas except that it feels like he's just been hit with a frying pan, and next to them Jules and André are looking at him with what can only be described as awe. Marco, however, is doing his damn hardest not to meet Mario's eyes, swallowing thickly as he averts his eyes from the wall to the ground back and forth. 

Mario tries not to let it get to him, tries to act like he's okay, but he can feel his face fall and his spirits dampen, and his steps are a lot more defeated when he moves over to take a seat between Thomas and Boa. Thankfully, someone picks up the conversation on the other side of the room, and suddenly everyone's talking among themselves again, Mario's short defilé clearly over.

"So?" He asks under his breath, looking from Thomas to Jérôme. 

"That's..." Jérôme starts, nervously wringing his hands together. "That is very much not what I had in mind when I urged you to do this."

"Why?" Mario asks, sweating profusely. "Is it the jacket? It's the jacket, right? It's too much."

"Somehow, I think the jacket actually improves on the general outfit," Manu speaks up, rubbing his face with his palms and trying to muster up a smile when he turns to look at Mario.

"What are you guys going on about," Thomas snorts next to Mario, turning to look at him with a huge smile on his face. "He looks great. That bodysuit is hugging his curves just right." 

"You're a straight married man," Manu comments, furrowing his brows at Thomas.

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate a good ass when I see one," Thomas replies with such ease that Mario actually believes he might look good. He doesn't have it in himself to blush at his words anymore, he's so used to Thomas being inappropriate towards everything from goats to tables. 

"Hey Mario!" Mats calls over to him, a wicked grin on his face. "New clothes?"

Mario doesn't know what to makes of it when Marco blushes deeply next to Mats and averts his eyes. Benni's rolling his own on Mats' other side, but he smiles openly at Mario when their looks cross.

"Not really," Mario says somewhat shyly, tugging nervously at his jacket sleeve, and it's not like he's lying, there's not one piece of clothing that's new. 

"Well, you look good," Mats grins wider and winks at him devilishly, and Mario smiles nervously. "Why don't you come join us for a bit," he continues, patting the very tight space between him and Marco. "These idiots are probably sick of your mug, they see it so much," he points vaguely at Mario's Bayern's teammates. "We, on the other hand, have missed your face."

Mario only smiles weakly, nodding lightly and meeting Thomas' eyes for a second before getting up. This is his chance to get close to Marco. Only, as soon as Mario squeezes himself between his ex-teammates, Marco suddenly clears his throat and gets up rather abruptly. 

"I'm," he starts, looking from Mario to Mats and back at Mario again, "it's, um, getting a little stuffy in here, I'm just gonna go up to my room for a while."

Mario can't even pretend not to be upset, his face falling so quickly he's sure everyone in the room notices. He just nods mutely at Marco, can feel Mats getting agitated next to him, and when he turns to look at the defender, it looks like he's shaking his head at Marco. Only he stops as soon as he notices Mario's eyes on him.

Jules drops himself in Marco's vacated place out of nowhere and smiles widely at Mario, very much like an overexcited little puppy complete with floppy ears and a tiny muzzle. 

Mario though, Mario can't bring himself to concentrate on any of the compliments Jules lavishes upon him, staring blankly at the doorway where Marco just disappeared instead.

Operation CTL: Phase 3 apparently proved a complete failure.

\-----

Marco has barely said three words to him since they got here the day before, and Mario's pretty sure he's doomed if even Costa's advice sucks. He's walking with Jérôme and Benni towards the lunch area when he spots Marco walking by with André. They both wave their way, even Marco, but Mario can't even care about that with André there. Because André, impressionable young thing that he is, is wearing a black thermal undershirt and leggings, tight enough to resemble a unitard, with yellow high-tops and a leather jacket that looks about 6 sizes too big. 

"Holy mother of god," Boa mutters next to Mario, his face contorting like he's in pain, "is that-"

"Mats' jacket?" Benni takes over on Mario's other side. "Yes."

"Congratulations, Mario," Boa mutters next to him, patting him somewhat harshly on the shoulder. "You've made this happen," he cringes, pointing at André. "Even if operation CTL fails, you're good."                                                                                                                               

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_"Dude, what did you run away like your pants caught on fire for? I called him over for you!"_

_"Did you see what he was wearing? I'm getting a boner just thinking about it, I couldn't have him so close to me in that."_

_"Ew, man, there's such a thing as tmi."_

_"Hey, you asked."_                                                                                                

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	4. IV. Thiago

**IV. Thiago**

 

At least international break proves successful in one way. They end up winning both their games, and Mario scores a goal and assists another two, one of them by Marco. They're entirely too happy and by the end of the second game Marco rushes over to Mario and squeezes him into a hug, burying his face in Mario's neck for so long Mario worries he's somehow stuck there. It's all a little too much and not enough at the same time, and he can feel the tiny hairs at the back of his neck stand up when Marco's lips move along his sweaty skin as he repeatedly thanks him for the amazing set up. 

They get hammered in Jules and Erik's room after, and by the end of the night, Mario and Marco are sitting so close next to each other Mario's sure they're permanently stuck this way. Only Marco bails when André leaves the party, and Mario's left all alone to watch Jules try to explain to Erik how much he loves him. Somehow, Mario doesn't think _I wish I could turn you into a lamp and keep you in my house_ quite clearly delivers the message, but he's drunk enough to appreciate the effort. And in any case, Erik's cheeks are especially rosy and his eyes glassy as he watches Jules with abandon, and Mario think Jules can tell him he collects body parts in his basement, it wouldn't change a thing. 

He falls asleep on Jules' bed and wakes up late the next morning, sprints to his bedroom to grab his things and make it to the bus on time. He bumps into Marco on his way out of the hotel, and they stand there awkwardly for a few seconds before Marco closes the distance between them and pulls him into a hug. Mario has his hands full holding his shaving kit and a jacket and has no time to react properly, so his arms end up wedged between them along with the items he's holding, his elbow digging painfully into Marco's ribs, his face buried in Marco's collarbone so awkwardly, he can't appreciate any of it when he has this hard a time breathing. He inhales sharply when Marco finally lets go, mumbling something unintelligible - even _he_ doesn't know what - before taking off towards the bus.

\-----

"So? Did it work?"

_Ugh_. Mario's been in the locker room for barely five minutes and Juan is the third person to ask him that question.

"No, I'm pretty sure it didn't," Mario mutters, pulling his training jersey on and moving over to the bench to pull his socks on too.

"Nonsense," Thomas dismisses next to him. At least he thinks it's Thomas. He can't really tell because whoever it is is currently leading a fight with the shirt he's trying to pull on. Or off? Either way, his face is completely hidden behind the red garment and his elbow is awkwardly stuck in the sleeve and Mario doesn't even think about it when he stands up on the bench and moves towards him until he's close enough to help him pull the thing over his head. "Marco totally went for it," Thomas continues as soon as his face emerges. "Mario even started a trend."

"He didn't go for it," Mario argues sheepishly, "and I certainly didn't start a trend. André was the only one stupid enough to try the look."

"That's not true," Boa tuts as he walks by them out of nowhere and takes his place next to Mario. "I saw Christoph leaving the hotel wearing pretty much the same thing. I'm pretty sure Manu nearly had a seizure trying to cover him up."

"Whatever," Mario mutters, tying his laces and walking towards the exit. "Marco didn't go for it."

"He'll go for the next one!" Thomas calls after him and Mario rolls his eyes on his way out.

\-----

He's sitting home a little bit over a week later, lazily flipping through his channels trying to find something to distract him when his front door opens, and in comes Thiago, David and Thomas. David's holding his tablet and the other two have their hands full with bags, something that looks suspiciously like pink feathers peaking out of the one Thiago is holding.

"What are you guys doing here?" Mario groans, turning his TV off and throwing his controller away.

"It's good to see you too, pumpkin," David drawls before plopping himself on the couch next to Mario. "We're here to see out phase 4 of operation CTL."

"I told you guys I don't want to try anything anymore," Mario tries weakly, already aware his words are falling on deaf ears. "Marco is clearly not interested in getting back together with me."

"We all know that's not true, Mario," Thomas argues, rolling his eyes, and taking a seat on Mario's other side.

"Besides, Thiago's come up with a great idea, and it's been tried and tested so we definitely know this one's going to work," David adds, placing his tablet in Mario's lap and opening some docs.

"Tried and tested?" Mario asks, raising his eyebrows at Thiago who's emptying the bags in front of him and is that a red velvet drape? "Are you guys running some shady lab where you try these things on squirrels or something?"

"Of course we are,"Thiago says casually as he continues pulling out things from the bag. A blond curly wig. "It's also how I managed to secure David."

"Hey!" David objects from his spot next to Mario. "You managed to _secure_ me? I'm not a piece of property!"

"You kind of are, though," Mario mumbles next to him and David shrugs getting back to his iPad.

"He's right anyway, it did work on me," he concedes.

"What did, exactly?" Mario asks, a hint of frustration in his voice because he's already done with this plan. Please stop.

"This," David says, pointing at the open file on the tablet.

"Operation CTL: Phase 4 - Dare to Bare?" Mario reads aloud, looking at Mülli for some sort of explanation. "The fuck does this mean?"

"It means, my cute fluffy friend, that you are going to strip for Marco," Thiago explains, picking the pink feathers boa off the floor and wrapping it around his neck dramatically.

Mario can't do anything but stare for a few minutes, trying and failing to find the right words to describe his current state of horror. There is not a world in which he is going to stoop as low as this. Not that Thiago stooped low when he stripped for David. But, for one thing, Thiago's got a body sculpted like Hercules, and two, there's something so inherently sexual about him that Mario has zero doubts about his ability to strip like a pro. Maybe it's because he looks like a mix between an angry matador and a bull 96.3% of the time. Maybe not, but it doesn't matter, because Mario doesn't doubt it either way.

"Don't freak out," Thomas urges, patting Mario on the back and Mario's too busy trying to breathe correctly to marvel at the fact that Thomas just essentially read his mind. 

"I can't _strip_ , Mülli!" Mario howls and his voice sounds desperately panicked even to his own ears, but he can't even bring himself to tone it down a little. Are they even aware of what they're asking him to do here?

"Yes you can," David intervenes before Thomas can say anything, and Mario's tall forward of a friend just shoots him a reassuring smile instead. "We've seen you take your shirt off a thousand times, and for someone who thinks they can't strip, you do it pretty sultrily. I've even caught Thiago staring a couple of time."

"Guilty," Thiago admits, a sheepish smile gracing his features, and Mario can feel the tip of his earns turn pink, the flush already creeping down his neck.

"Come on, Mario," Mülli encourages him, turning fully on the couch so that's he's facing him, "you can do this. We can help you and Thiago will teach you some tricks and it'll be a chance to talk to Marco on Skype if nothing else." Of course. Of course they want him to strip for Marco on Skype. "What have you got to lose?"

"Aside from my dignity, nothing," Mario quips, his voice still a little too hysterical. "Nothing at all." He turns to look at Thomas who's raising his eyebrows unnaturally at him. Right. His dignity flew out the window the day he pulled that metaphorical leotard on. "Alright, fine, but you are not bringing that feathery monstrosity anywhere near me."

"Yes!" Thomas exclaims a little too happily as David and Thiago high-five, and Mario can already feel it's about to go downhill from there. He is going to embarrass himself to the point of no return probably, but at least his friends will be happy.

"Let's do this," Thiago cries out excitedly, disappearing in Mario's kitchen for a moment and coming back with a maintenance ladder in tow.

Mario can only sit there and stare at him, wondering what the hell he's going to do with the ladder and wishing he could maybe rewind back time to a few years earlier, to that specific day that he allowed David, Thiago and Thomas to feel so at home in his apartment. 

"Where's he going to do this thing?" Thiago asks David, not paying any attention to Mario. "Living room or bedroom?"

David is busy digging through one of the bags - there's apparently more stuff in there? - and he only answers when he comes up for air with a dozen light bulbs in tow. 

"There's a lot more space in here than the bedroom, it will give him more room to saunter around."

"Right," Thiago mumbles, placing the ladder in the middle of the room before turning the light switch off and heading over to David. He picks a random lightbulb out of David's stash before climbing the steps. 

He props himself up on the second step from the top and starts fiddling with one of the lights on Mario's ceiling.

"Okay, what the fuck are you guys doing?" Mario asks, finally shaking himself out of his dumb momentary stupor and realizing that Thiago is possibly changing his lights? "Are you going to teach me to strip or are you doing some maintenance work around the apartment?"

"Oh no," Thomas clears his throat casually. "You don't actually need lessons on the how to strip part, we have complete and utter faith you'll do good on that front," he continues, taking the bulb David offers him and moving over to Julian's awful fringed lamp. "Thiago will probably show you a few tricks eventually, but nothing too major. We're actually here to set the right mood for you."

"Try now," Thiago orders, going down a few steps, and when David turns the light switch on, Mario nearly chokes, because up on his ceiling where Thiago was just fiddling with the lamp seconds ago, is a purple light. 

_Purple_. And not even regular lighting with a hint of purple. Nope. A full on plum purple spotlight that very much makes Mario's insides twist. 

He's not even done cringing at the new decor before David turns off the light, hands Thiago who's now on the ground a new bulb and helps him move the ladder towards the next spot. 

"Twelve spotlights in all," Mülli remarks, looking at the ceiling as he covers the lamp currently in his hold. "We counted right," he continues, switching the newly fixed lamp on and looking at the now red-lit corner of Mario's house with pride. 

"I'm- am just... gonna," Mario mumbles, pointing vaguely outside the living room, "go lie down, probably. Or- drown myself in my toilet, possibly," he continues, taking a few unsteady steps towards his bedroom. "Just... Holler when you're done turning my living room into a set piece straight out of Cabaret."

He doesn't even wait for anyone to say anything before stumbling into his bedroom and shutting the door behind him. He dives face first into his bed, grabs the pillow he knows still smells mysteriously of Marco - probably because Mario never sleeps on it anymore or washes it for that matter - and buries his face in it, trying not to think about the shape he'll wake up to find his living room in.

\-----                                                     

"He could not be home."

This is the only excuse Mario's got anymore not to go through with this, because Thiago, David and Thomas have made sure everything else is in order.

His living room is currently lit in spots of deep red and purple, a real horror show of sorts. There's candles littered all over the tables which have been pushed to the sides of the room to give Mario enough space to work his, erm, show, and not turn the place into a fire hazard. Somehow, they've found a way to hang that hideous red velvet curtain on the wall right behind the couch, and they've thrown patches of atrocious confetti all over the floor, because you know, why not make this worse than it already is. The worst part is they've propped Mario's laptop on one of the high tables right in front of his TV and have made sure the camera can catch _every single hideous detail_ of the room.

Mario's currently seated on a chair in front of Thiago who's applying a "subtle hint of black liner that will make Marco try to jump out of his computer screen to get to you" on his eyes. Well, according to Thiago anyway, who's apparently the true orchestrator of this freak show. Mario has never felt more betrayed. Thiago was supposed to be the reasonable one. 

They've dressed him in black pants that have hidden button along the edges for full effect, to make it easier for Mario to channel Magic Mike and tear them open when the time calls for it. He's very much naked underneath, save for a pair of very tight, very silky, very _yellow_ briefs. _We'll humor Marco in his poor taste in colors just this once_ was Thiago's only explanation for the atrocious garment.

His naked - and very much lathered with Johnson baby oil - chest is covered only by a tailored buttoned vest, his pants low enough to show a hint of his stomach, and Thiago has made sure he's got his black diamond studs on.

"He's home, Mario," Thomas insists, rolling his eyes. "It's Friday night and they've got a game tomorrow. You of all people know Marco loves to stay home the day before a game if he can help it."

Yes, okay, Thomas is completely right, Mario is perfectly aware of that. Doesn't mean he won't try to look for an excuse to back out of this because he's about to _strip for Marco on Skype._

_"_ Alright, I'm done,"Thiago announces with flourish, letting go of Mario's face and tucking the liner in a bright red Bayern makeup pouch. Mario won't question that Thiago has a makeup pouch to begin with, let alone why it has the Bayern seal on it. 

Mario gets up from his chair and walks over to the full-length mirror in his bedroom to check out the finished result. He takes one look at himself, feels his gag reflex stir, and runs away before he can throw up on himself. He tries to convince himself that he looks decent. Because he does looks decent. A little too shiny, perhaps, his arm muscles a little too pronounced because of the oil, and the liner making his eyes a little too dark, but there's no need to feel like throwing up. 

"Aright," David says as Mario makes it back to them, "it's a little after 8, so that should give you plenty of time to have some fun with this."

He moves over to Mario's sound system, clicks the first song on his "Strip Mix" playlist and sets it on shuffle. And yes, apparently that's a thing. Mario follows him and scans the list, just to prepare himself for what's about to come.

_1\. Hot in Herre - Nelly_

_2\. Fever - Peggy Lee_

_3\. You Can Leave Your Hat On - Joe Cocker_

_4\. Tainted Love - Soft Cell_

_5\. Wicked Game - Chris Isaak_

_6\. Pour Some Sugar on It - Def Leppard_

_7\. Let's Get in On - Marvin Gaye_

_8\. Poison - Alice Cooper_

_9\. Wicked Games - The Weeknd_

_10\. Cannibal - Ke$ha_

_11\. An Easier Affair - George Mic-_

Yeah, okay, that's more than enoughto send him on a downward spiral of shame.

"Remember to tuck your butt cheeks in as soon as you take off your pants, and don't be afraid to pout a little," Thiago bestows his advice on Mario, wiping some excess liner off his cheek, and Mario weirdly feels like a toddler getting ready for his first day of school.

"Make us proud," Thomas says like the cool parent he clearly takes himself for, nodding encouragingly at Mario before opening the front door.

"Call us right after," Thiago orders before all three of his friends make their way out the door and towards the elevator.

The last thing he sees before they disappear round the corner is David's obnoxiously exaggerated wink.

Mario sits on his couch for the longest time when his friends leave, looking around his living room. It looks like an overly drunk multi-colored donkey piñata just threw up in here, and Mario wonders if he's really about to go through with this. Is he really going to call Marco and strip for him? Is he that desperate?

The answer is yes. He loves Marco. He misses Marco. He could go all dramatic romantic movie cliché and say he can't live without Marco, but that'd be a lie. He can live without him, has been doing that nearly his entire life. The thing is, well, he just doesn't want to.

And that decides it, really. Mario doesn't even think about it when he moves over to the laptop and logs into his Skype account. He grabs the nearest chair and mechanically takes a seat in front of the computer, hoping to have a quiet conversation with Marco first to ease his way into the ensuing strip show. He's just clicked the video call button when it hits him again just what he's about to do, and his heart races and palms sweat so much he thinks he might faint, but before he can click the window shut, the call's picked up, and Mario hastily plasters a smile on his face, feeling a lot more nauseated than happy.

And with good reason. Because. Suddenly, there are people. As in, multiple individuals in the frame. And somewhere in the back of his mind, in some far far away corner where he's not about to strip for the boy he loves, he recognized the three faces currently pushed together to fit the tight space the camera allows. But right now, he can't place them, can't name them properly. The only thing he is definitely sure of is that none of them are Marco.

_Oh god._

"Mario!" One of them exclaims happily, and something clicks in Mario's mind.

Nuri. And Auba. And Shinji.

_Oh god._

"Hey- Hi, hiii," Mario mumbles unintelligibly, trying to make sense of this, willing his head to cooperate because this is really happening.

His living room looks like a tacky version of the Moulin Rouge, his body is soaked with sweat and baby oil, and none of these people are Marco.

"Are you okay there, Mario?" Auba asks, his brow creasing phenomenally. "You look a little pale."

"Ye- yeah, yeah," Mario says, nodding a little too enthusiastically and trying for a normal voice, which he realizes is nearly impossible considering he's squeaking very much à la Ross Geller. "I- I was just, um, not expecting to see you guys."

"You were probably expecting Marco," Shinji nods like he understands what this is all about, his eyes nearly disappearing as he smiles wide at Mario, and yes, Mario can admit it makes him feel a little bit more at ease. Just slightly."He's just gone into the kitchen to get some more beer. You wanna say hi to everyone in the meantime?"

_Everyone?_

Mario has no time to ponder that word because suddenly all three of his friends disappear, and the camera pans to show the rest of Marco's living room where no less than ten people are sitting. Erik. Mats. That new goalkeeper. He thinks he spots Jules and Benni too, but the camera pans back to the three faces he was originally greeted with, and he can see Nuri and Auba sharing a look before they both turn to him. Shinji vacates his spot and moves over to sit a bit further in the back, allowing Mario a view of everyone else in the background.

And holy shit, is Jules wearing that ridiculous outfit too? He totally is. Mario can actually see him sweating in his thermal gear, but he's apparently gone for full effect because Mario can also tell he's rocking an electric blue leather jacket. With fringes.

It's almost enough to make Mario forget what's happening right now, but not quite. Because, in that same moment, Joe Cocker's "You Can Leave Your Hat On" starts blasting in the background, reminding Mario that this horrible nightmare is indeed real.

"Interesting choice of music," Nuri mumbles and Auba giggles next to him. Actually giggles. "Hey Mario,"Nuri continues, a suspicious smile on his face, "why is there a red velvet curtain in the back? At least I think it's red. Or it might just be the lighting at your house."

"And what is with all the confetti, dude?" Auba asks, snickering next to Nuri.

Right. Mario's house looks like Miss Margot's House of Exotic Beauty. And he himself looks like Miss Margot's freshest product.

"Are you wearing eye-liner?" Shinji adds from the background as if to emphasize Mario's last thought, squinting at the now far away screen, his smile as wide as ever.

"I- I'm," Mario stutters, trying to come up with a valid excuse, and fast. He looks around over to the wall on the right where there's a small frame on the shelf with a picture of him and Ann at the last costume party Basti threw. Perfect. "Throwing a, um, costume party. I'm going as, um," he mumbles, looking himself down to come up with a plausible costume, "Aladdin. Thomas in dressing as Abu, we're matching," he shrugs, hoping it sounds more casual than under duress.

"So why are you Skyping Marco, then?" Nuri challenges, raising his eyebrows.

_That evil little shit._

"I was actually trying to call Maaa.......nu," he finally says rather loudly, mentally high-fiving himself. "His name's just before Marco's, I must've clicked on Marco's name by mistake."

"Right," Nuri nods exaggeratedly, looking to his right where Mario can hear a soft commotion. "Speak of the devil," Nuri mutters, his smile widening and reaching for something off-screen.

He's holding a beer when his hand's visible again, and Mario manages to put two and two together just in time to hear that voice he can recognize anywhere.

"Sunny?"

He hears Marco before he sees him, his heart skipping several hundred beats, and by the time Marco's pale face fills up the screen, Mario is sure he is going to throw up. His eyes go wide as he tries to muster up a smile, and his body acts on its own accord when he shuts the screen rather harshly, effectively shutting his laptop off.

He barely makes it to the guest bathroom before he's heaving his stomach's content into the toilet.

It's only when he's finished throwing up that he sinks down on his floor, lying on the cold tile floor and reaching for his phone in his pocket. He opens a new message and starts typing.

_My house connection is actin up. Sorry! C u at the next IB_

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_"He was totally going to strip for you."_

_"He was_ not _going to strip for me."_

_"You weren't there. You didn't see. His house looked like something out of a Baz Luhrmann movie."_

_"Who the fuck's Baz Luhrmann? And who made you some kind of stripping expert?"_

_"Doesn't matter. And I know because I've done it before. Just ask Alysha. She loves it."_

\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	5. V. Mats&Benni

**V. Mats &Benni**

 

It's been a week since the stripping incident.

He's already make it clear to his friends that he doesn't want to talk about it ever, and that he wants to pull the plug on operation CTL. Probably. Well, for now at least, because he can still feel the hot trickle of shame slowly taking over him any time he remembers Nuri and Auba's shit-eating grins, or Marco's wide, confused eyes, or even Shinji's oblivious smile. 

He has to admit though, Thomas, David and Thiago have been surprisingly understanding about this. He'd texted them that night right after he texted Marco, a brief "it didn't work, I'm going to bed," before going over to his own bathroom and hopping in the shower. He made sure the water was especially hot and the pressure especially hard on his body, trying to aggressively wash the memory of this horrible night out of him.

That didn't particularly work, naturally, with Marco still on his mind as he pulled on a pair of boxers and proceeded to wash his teeth before towel-drying his hair. By the time he made it into bed, he felt exhausted and completely drained. He pushed Marco's pillow off his bed and wrapped himself into one of his blankets before fitfully falling asleep. 

His pillow was suspiciously wet when he woke up early the next morning, but Mario convinced himself it had everything to do with his damp hair when he went to bed. He'd quickly changed pillowcases and threw the current one in the washing bin before going through his morning bathroom routine and going out to his living room to start cleaning out the remnants of his disastrous night, but he was surprised to find nothing out of the ordinary there. The lights were pale yellow when he turned the switch on, that huge monstrosity of a curtain had disappeared, and when Mario went back to his room, he noticed that even the clothes he was wearing last night, which he's sure he threw on the floor by his duffel bag, were nowhere in sight. The only evidence that the night before actually happened would prove to be a tiny bright pink confetti that he would find later behind the living room door, something that his friends must've missed while cleaning out the place.

\-----

The call from Mats comes over ten days after the initial stripping incident.

He's just unlocked the door to his house when his phone starts violently vibrating in his pocket, and when he pulls it out he finds Mats calling him via Skype.

He doesn't take the call, walks over to his laptop and boots it instead, taking his duffel into the bedroom in the meantime. His laptop's up and running by the time he makes it back, and he fires up Skype and dials Mats' account as he plugs the computer into his gigantic television screen. He hadn't done that when he'd called Marco for the- that thing that shall not be named, because he was especially nervous and he didn't want to see Marco's magnified reaction to every one of his planned, erm, moves. But, he's pretty sure Mats will not be expecting him to take his clothes off, so he might as well make use of his amazing television. 

He hears the tell-tale sound of the call being picked up and he backs away and looks at the screen, only to be greeted with Mats' confused face. Mario backs away until he's in the camera frame, and he notices Mats' face relax immediately, a genuine smile taking over his features.

"Hey pummelfee," Mats says warmly, and Mario feels something akin to nostalgia travel through his body. He always hated it when people called him pummelfee, except for Mats. He was the only one allowed to do so, mostly because Mario knew he always said it with genuine affection and meant absolutely no harm with it.

"Hi Matsi."

Mario can tell from the awkward angle that Mats has his laptop propped up on his chest, and the white pillow visible behind his head means that he's in bed. Which is not entirely unexpected when it comes to Mats, especially if Benni's in town.

As if on cue, the screen moves a little, signaling the bed shifting, and Benni's face is right next to Mats on the screen. 

"Munchkin," Benni greets with a smile that Mario returns.

"How are you guys doing?" Mario asks, raising the volume on his television and walking over to him kitchen. He's hungry, so he might as well grab something to eat and make himself comfortable.

"Yeah, we're good," he hears Mats' voice boom through the speakers all the way from the living room. "You?"

He continues rifling through his fridge for a few more seconds before pulling two leftover containers of Chinese food from when Thomas was here the night before. He doesn't have the patience to heat them up, so he just grabs a pair of chopsticks from one of the drawers and makes his way over to the living room.

"Mario?" He can hear Mats says when he rounds the corner, and his face visibly relaxes when Mario comes into the frame again.

"Sorry, I just got home," Mario explains, taking a seat on the couch right in front of the camera. "I was just grabbing something to eat," he continues, placing the containers in front of him on the small table and pulling one of them open. "I'm good," he says, looking up at the screen. "Okay, I've been better," he admits sheepishly when Mats raises his eyebrows at him. "Clearly, you're perfectly aware of that."

"I'm aware of nothing," Mats argues diplomatically. "We're just calling to see how you've been doing."

"Come on, guys," Mario shrugs as he shovels some veggie noodles into his mouth, "you were there," he continues, putting the container down and wiping the excess off his chin. "You knew perfectly well what I was calling to do and you saw how phenomenally it backfired."

"I must admit though, you had the decor impeccably on point," Mats teases, smiling crookedly. 

Mario can't help but chuckle when he remembers that horrible red curtain with its gold accented fringes. Something about it reminds him of Jules. 

"Stop making him feel worse about it," Benni admonishes next to Mats, staring him down.

"How am I making him feel worse?" Mats asks. "Look at him, he's laughing now," he continues, pointing at the screen with an annoyed look, and yeah, Mario's definitely missed this.

"Alright dads," he teases, effectively pulling both their attentions back on him. "What are you calling me for?"

"We wanna help you," Benni says, getting straight to the point. "We know what you've  been trying to do, we just don't know where you've been getting these amazing ideas from."

"The strip thing was all Thiago, and the Sandy thing before that was Javi and Douglas' id-"

"The Sandy thing?" Mats interrupts, raising his eyebrows.

"From Grease," Mario explains. "You know, the musical?"

"Are you, wha- really?" Mats stutters dramatically. Mario has only seen him get so worked up on a few occasions.

"Are you seriously telling me that that abomination of an outfit that Julian Draxler has refused to take off since the international break is meant to be Sandy's?" Benni nearly shrieks, and okay, they're both getting a little _too_ offended here.

"It was the closest thing I had to it," Mario defends weakly, trying to come out unscathed. 

"And you didn't think to, I don't know, maybe dress like Zuko?" Mats furrows his brow in phenomenal fashion, making Mario feel even more like a little kid being scolded by his parents. "Or dress like yourself and not do anything because god knows Marco loves those awful harem pants of yours?"

"And yet it didn't stop him from walking out on them!" He doesn't even know what he's saying anymore.

"Somehow, I don't think it was the pants, Mario," Mats mutters, taking a deep breath. 

"Okay, we all need to calm down," Benni reasons. "We're supposed to be helping him Mats, not make him feel worse about it."

Mats visibly relaxes when Benni wraps his hand around his bicep, and Mario feels an irrational burst of jealousy. He used to have that with Marco. He wants that again.

"Sorry, Mario," Mats mutters, looking too apologetic and Mario sighs deeply. It's not Mats' fault Mario was too scared to put Marco first.

"It's fine," Mario whispers sadly, chewing on a piece of chicken and some veggies. "You're right. My harem pants didn't push Marco away. They're too awesome to do that."

"That they are," Mats chuckles on the screen and Mario smiles despite himself, his grin matching Benni's.

"Alright children," Benni sighs, patting Mats on the shoulder. "I believe we initiated this call to help this young man get back with that blond tattooed disaster you call your teammate."

"Welcome to Operation Catch the Llama," Mario mumbles as he chews on his food, smiling at how fittingly Benni just described Marco. 

Mats snorts loudly and Benni's smile grows bigger as he lets out a low chuckle.

"That's a ridiculously appropriate operation name," Mats admits, his eyes nearly disappearing into his face.

"Tell me about it," Mario mutters, matching his friend's smile. "Alright, so tell me, how am I going to embarrass myself next?"

"You will not be embarrassing yourself this time," Benni states like the 50-year old he really is, "because you will be doing exactly what Marco wanted you to do in the first place."

"Look, Mario," Mats picks up, sighing and growing serious all of a sudden. "I'm not going to pretend I don't know the reason you guys broke up. Marco and I are good friends, you're fully aware of that, so of course we've talked about this."

"About how I apparently care more about my reputation than I do about him?" Mario mutters, his last argument with Marco before their breakup still a bitter memory. 

"I'm not saying Marco's the brightest tool in the shed," Mats rolls his eyes affectionately, and Mario's stomach does a funny flip. "But he did have a point, kiddo."

"I'm like two years younger than you," Mario mutters but smiles at him.

"Four," Mats shoots back. "And I will call you kiddo if I want to." Mario only chuckles lightly and Mats smirks like he just won the lottery. "Anyway, as I was saying, Marco might've overreacted a little, but he really did have a point. As soon as those rumors started flying, you just bailed. You didn't want to be seen with him at all. If the only thing you're gonna do is stay at home together, what's the fun in that?"

"I know, Mats, but something like this could ruin our careers if people find out," Mario tries, feeling the flush creep up his neck. "They won't accept us being together."

"You don't know that," Benni says next to Mats. "I think we're all not giving people enough credit. Most of them will still support us. And anyway, we're not talking about you coming out right now."

"What Benni's trying to say here is that no one will crucify you if you're seen out with Marco every once in a while. Marco's not asking you to wear an engagement ring and a shirt that says 'property of Marco Reus.' He just wants to be able to go out with you in public every once in a while and not worry that you might suffer a stroke every minute."

"You already do it with André and Thomas. You think there aren't rumors about you with those two? And yet you were seen out with André about four times in the last month alone."

It's true. Everything they're saying is true. He needs to stop being so scared of what might happen and start enjoying what is actually happening.

"Alright, what do I gotta do?" 

Mats just looks Mario through his screen, a terrifying smile on his face as he meets Benni's eyes for a second.

"We thought you'd never ask."

\-----

He can't believe he's about to do this. In all of his years as a human being, Mario never imagined he would love someone so much that he would go through what he's about to do.

As it is, it's Saturday night and the crowds have gathered excitedly to watch the game happening in a little over 20 minutes. 

Mario's maneuvering his way through the throng of people, his hood pulled so low on his face as he tries to go unnoticed and make his way safely into the Signal Iduna Park, a rolled up sign tucked neatly under his arm.

He can't believe he's about to go through with this. He can't believe he's about to follow Benni's advice. Or Mats. Well, both. Coming here was Benni's idea, but the over-the-top sign is all Mats. 

He tries not think about the queasiness he feels, tries not to imagine Marco's reaction when he undoubtedly looks at the VIP box to find him there. With a sign that says "would kiss you if you were next to me" in thick black letters. 

He doesn't understand how this is not going to make the rumors a hundred time worse, but he's desperate enough not to care anymore. 

_I'll give you two seats instead of one, so people will think the sign's for Ann since you'll have nothing but an empty chair next to you._

Mats' logic is illogical to a fault, but Mario's not about to argue here. He's going to go through with this, the consequences be damned. 

He makes it to his seat with only a few raised eyebrows and proceeds to open the cardboard sign, but he feels way too nervous to hold it himself, his sweaty palms soaking through the fabric, so he just throws it on the empty seat next to him. Mario's surprised to find it stands in the seat, but it's upside down and Mario's too distracted by what's happening on the field to care because the players are warming up and he can see Marco laughing with Auba as they jog lightly along the field. 

Mario takes off his hood and removes his jacket, an easy smile taking over his face because he's missed this. He's missed seeing Marco like this, so irrevocably at home. There's no other team that could ever make Marco so at ease, not 'Gladbach or the NT or anywhere else. He will always be a Dortmund boy at heart.

Mario can feel the box filling up around him, family members and partners and kids, but he's too busy right now, staring at the field where Marco's waiting for his turn to shoot at the goal. He's still standing in line when Mario notices some movement next to him, and he forces his eyes away from Marco for a minute and finally notices Mats who's waving frantically at him, and Mario can just about make out that shit-eating grin all the way from here.

 _Jerk_.

He's not even done with that thought when Marco notices Mats as well, and his eyes turn to scan the VIP box and see who's making Mats this excited. 

Mario has no time to prepare himself before Marco's eyes fall on him, and he can see them widen almost comically, his mouth falling open when he spots him. He can only stand there dumbly, meeting Marco's eyes and trying not to let the nerves in his stomach swallow him whole, but suddenly Marco's face relaxes a little, his surprise making way to a small hesitant smile. Mario's about to reciprocate when he's distracted by a shriek a little to his left, and before he can turn to see what's happening, he's nearly knocked back as something comes barreling into him, and suddenly, a pair of short arms wrap themselves up around his waist. When Mario finally manages to keep his balance long enough to look down, he can only make out tufts of yellow hair and a tiny yellow jersey.

"Mario! Mario, Mario, you're here!" Nico yells into Mario's stomach where his face is tucked in, his voice muffled by Mario's light sweater. 

Mario's smile grows bigger, bending his knees a little to lower himself down and pick Nico up. He props him on the seat behind him so he can hug him back properly, realizing in that moment how much he's missed the tiny ball of energy.

Nico finally pulls away with a huge smile on his face and Mario's nearly floored by how much he's grown. He looks past Nico for a moment and finally notices Melanie standing a little further behind him like a proud mother goose. 

He smiles hesitantly at her, wondering if she blames him for potentially breaking her brother's heart, but she's on him in the next second, her arms wrapped tightly around him as she kisses his hair, and Mario's overwhelmed with relief as he returns the hug. This girl has been his family nearly as long as Marco has been.

"I can't believe that you're here," Melanie whispers as she pulls away, keeping one hand in his and looking him up and down. "Does that mean that..." She trails off, looking past Mario towards the empty seat where the sign is propped up. 

Mario only shakes his head sadly for a second before meeting her eyes again, a genuine smile on his face.

"It means that I'm trying," Mario explains, and her smile grows bigger.

"Interesting sign," she teases, taking a seat next to Nico.

"Mats will be happy to know you like it," Mario shoots at her, unable to keep the grin from his face.

"Does that mean you're staying the entire game?" Nico yells, making both Mario and Melanie wince.

"The whole entire game," Mario reassures, nodding his head and getting a kick of seeing Nico's eyes light up.

When he finally turns back to look at Marco, he's not looking at him anymore, focused instead on trying to score past Bürki - he doesn't - and Mario has an irrationally hard time keeping his disappointment off his face.

"He'll come around," Melanie reassures and Mario looks at her, trying for a smile.

"I hope so."

\-----

It almost feels like nothing ever changed. 

For over 90 minutes, Mario watches Dortmund slay on the pitch, cheering louder than anybody when Marco receives a perfect pass from Auba and toes the ball expertly past the keeper. 

As if Mario's not confused enough as it is, Marco throws his entire world off its axis once again. Because as soon as Marco's done soaking up his teammates' congratulatory hugs, he looks at the VIP stands very briefly before he takes three steps and jumps clumsily into the air in what Mario assumes is a one-man shoulder bump. Marco nearly tumbles to the ground when he lands, running a few unsteady steps to keep himself from pummeling face-first into the dirt, his smile so wide when he finally straightens back up that Mario can't do anything but grin like a madman. He might be reading too much into this, but was this not Marco acknowledging his existence? It should be, judging from the smile Marco flashes him one final time before resuming the game. But then again, it wouldn't be the first time Mario made something out of nothing so it could very much be Marco's way of saying he's fine without him, that he can make a perfectly poised shoulder bump even without him. Yeah, that's probably it.

The rest of the time he spends bantering with Mel and Nico, so engrossed in his conversation with the two that he nearly forgets the upside down sign on the seat next to him, only interrupted every once in a while when fans come up to him in the hope of scoring an autograph or even a selfie. Mario indulges all of them, so very happy to see that despite how those few haters have tried to make him believe he will never have a place in Dortmund ever again, a lot of people still think of him as one of their own, his current club allegiance be damned.

"Once a Dortmund boy, always a Dortmund boy," Melanie mutters next to him once he's done signing a little girl's BVB scarf, and he can't help but flash her a smile.

It's only when the referee blows the final whistle that that knot in his stomach that has been mysteriously absent during most of the game makes a very unwelcome return, the prospect of having to face Marco in a bit and explain to him just what he's doing watching a Dortmund game scaring him to the core.

"So, how exactly did you make your way in here without being seen?" Melanie asks, pulling on her light jacket and Making sure Nico's well-tucked into his Dortmund hoodie.

The night air is growing colder by the minute, and Mario can already feel his extremities threatening to freeze. He's not sure whether the dropping temperatures have anything to do with the nerves that are about to eat him alive or not, but he's pretty sure it's not _that_ cold.

"They don't call me master of disguise for nothing," Mario jokes a little too seriously, shivering as he pulls his black hoodie on, zipping it up and pulling the hood low enough to hide his face.

Melanie snorts loudly and Mario grins as he lifts his head a little to see her properly, but his attention's completely taken when Nico suddenly reaches out for Mario's hand, wrapping his small palm firmly around Mario's.

"We can wait until it's a little later so that people don't follow you like they follow uncle Marco," Nico tells him as he pulls on his yellow hood as well, trying to imitate him. "It always bothers him when he's tired, so we always have to leave a little late after games."

It's in that moment exactly that Mario realizes just how much Nico's grown. Mario and Marco haven't been broken up for long, but the last time Mario saw the little kid, he had no idea about any of this. All he knew was that his uncle Marco and his friend Mario played football, and they were very good at it. But now, it seemed the boy had started to understand a lot more, having seen Marco succumb under the pressure too many times.

"Thank you, Nico," Mario says with an honest smile, kneeling until he's level with the kid and wrapping his arms around him. "That would be very nice.'

"Marioooo," Nico objects, squealing when Marco tickles him and trying to push the larger man off him. "Why are you hugging me?"

"I just missed you, big guy."

\-----

They wait it out. They stay seated in the VIP area a little over half an hour, and when Melanie finally deems it an okay time to leave, they make their way out the stadium, Mario pulling his hood extra low on his face, just in case.

They're outside, waiting in the parking lot when he finally sees him. Mario's standing with Nico and Melanie, trying not to think about having to face Marco right now when he's so not ready to be rejected again, when the man in question finally makes his way out of the stadium. It's surprising, really, that no one else seems to notice him in his oversized Dortmund hoodie and pants.

He spots them almost at the same time Mario's eyes find him, and they just stare at each other for the longest time, Marco's steps faltering as he hesitates in his spot, shuffling from one foot to the other, almost like he wasn't expecting Mario to be there. It hurts, the rejection on his face that Mario can almost taste all the way from across the parking lot, and he wants nothing but to close his eyes and be in his home in Munich where he can't see Marco's green eyes looking at him so unsurely, where he can't risk his life getting more messed up than it already is.

Marco seems to have made up his mind, taking one step towards them when Nico finally notices him.

"Uncle Marco!" he yells, taking a few steps towards him and Melanie following suit, leaving Mario standing a little further in the back.

Unfortunately, Nico's cry turns more than a few heads, and before he knows it, Marco's swarmed by a group of fans, every single one of them looking to get a moment with Dortmund's golden boy.

Mario can't stay here. He can't stay here when he might get his heart broken in the next few minutes, he can't stay here where people might see him go through that, he can't stay here where people might actually remember they don't even like him.

He takes one last look at Marco, his cap barely visible behind the group of people, throws Mel an apologetic look when she turns to find him before he pulls his hood lower onto his face and makes his escape into the Dortmund night.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

 _"I don't know about you, but somehow I don't think he was at yesterday's game watching_ me _play."_

_"It doesn't matter why he was there. He still bailed as soon as the fans showed up. He doesn't want to be seen in public with me. Nothing has changed."_

_"You can't blame him for that, Marco. Even I had a hard time fishing you out of that beehive."_

_"And yet you still did."_

_"He plays for another team. Our arch-nemesis, in fact. And he still showed up. For you. I'd say that's pretty public."_

_"I don't wanna talk about him anymore. And stop being so dramatic."_

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	6. +I. Mario

**+I. Mario**

 

Mario doesn't talk about it to anyone. He doesn't mention it, doesn't discuss it when Thomas tries to coax it out of him, and naturally, he thinks about it every single night as he lies awake in bed, Marco's hesitant stare haunting him.

He makes sure everyone is aware that Operation CTL is dead and gone, makes all three of his best friends promise not to get involved in his relationship with Marco - or lack thereof - and urges them to let everyone else know it's over. 

The next international break comes and Mario tries not to panic over the prospect of having to see Marco again so soon. But it's also a chance for him to see if he can really stick to his plan and act "normal" around Marco.

Thomas is nearly shadowing him when they make it to their hotel in Cologne, as if he can feel Mario's trepidation, and to his greatest horror they walk in to find Jules, Max and André already in the lobby, wearing varied but equally horrifying versions of Mario's Sandy outfit, Max's leaf-patterned green thermal wear giving Mario a headache. He barely talks to them, trying to look anywhere but at Jules' visible bulge, before he makes his way to his room and throws himself on his bed as soon as he's locked in the confines of it. 

He wakes up groggy and confused a little over an hour later, and when he makes his way downstairs, all of his teammates are there. It feels a little bit like the last time, except that Mario's wearing something he feels very comfortable in, his black jeans and purple hoodie something he can easily hide behind. 

He tries to act as normal as possible when Marco's eyes find him, tries to look casual as he fist-bumps most of his teammates and makes his way to the empty seat between Benni and Emre. 

He loses himself in his conversation with Emre, trying to get to know his newest teammate a little better and willing himself to keep his cool anytime he feels Marco's eyes on him from across the room.

At practice, it's all a little easier, all of them finding it as effortless as ever to gel back together and have a little fun with it. He doesn't partner up with Marco though, not like he tried to do the last time, smiling instead at Emre when he hesitantly comes up to him for warm-up. It's very easy to want to help this new guy get integrated into the team, especially when Mario remembers very easily his first few times with this team, remembers how awkward it was for him to find a place for himself among a very tight-knit group of players.

They win their first game by a landslide, Marco, Mario and Thomas successfully linking together up front and scoring ball after ball past the keeper. They celebrate like they usually do, with fervor and excitement and a whole lot of affection, but Mario tries not focus on Marco's fingers in his hair, pretends he doesn't notice when Marco holds on to him a little longer than everyone else.

They get a day off on Sunday, and Marco spends most of the afternoon in the lobby trying to get André to go shopping with him. He's apparently found a place in Cologne that makes these horrible cotton pants/shorts cutoff hybrids he likes so much, and he wants to stock up on those while he's in town. Mats is nowhere in sight - Mario doesn't question it when Benni's not there either - and André doesn't go for it, so Mario offers to go with him instead. There's a very long, awkward pause when he does, everyone in a 3-mile-radius suddenly stopping to look at him, even André, none looking more surprised than Marco. Mario only clears his throat before he gets up and urges Marco to do the same.

It's a very awkward shopping trip, the two of them finding very little to talk about aside from the unseasonably hot weather, and Mario wishes a little he could find a way to make things better again. A few fans stop them on the streets on their way back, and Mario happily signs their shirts and notebooks - and even one guy's forehead? - and readily accepts to take a picture with them and Marco. He can tell Marco's not used to Mario being so carefree about all of this, can tell from the creases in his brow it's all very confusing for him, but Mario finds that he really needs to calm down about all of it. People will only suspect something if he makes it seem like they have something to suspect in the first place, and at this point in time, there really, really isn't.

They win their next game too, and the next day Mario bumps into Marco again on his way to his departing bus. They don't embrace this time, Marco awkwardly patting him on the shoulder instead before muttering a "see you" and shuffling back into the hotel, and Mario tries not to let it darken his mood, tries not to let the widening gap between him and Marco define them.

\-----

News of Marco's newest injury comes around three weeks later. It's just a dislocated shoulder, and it's very unlikely Marco will be out for more than two weeks, but Mario knows Marco well enough to know he's probably sitting at home, drowning in anger and self-pity. 

He thinks about posting something on Twitter to support him, but what's another generic "get well soon" going to do when Marco's probably beating himself up right, wondering exactly why he can't seem to get a break ever. He scratches that idea and contemplates calling instead, checking up on Marco via phone, but what's he going to say, "how does it feel like to sustain your 67th injury in under two years?"

The third idea that pops in his head is a little extreme, and that's probably why Mario goes for it. He misses Marco, probably a lot more than he's made everyone else believe, and the thought of leaving Marco alone to go through this gnaws at Mario's skin.

So he goes online before he can stop himself, books the first business class flight out of Munich he can find, and proceeds to turn packing his suitcase into an a parkour session as he tries to find all the things he needs for his planned overnight stay and make it out the door in the next twenty minutes. 

He makes it to his car with a minute to spare, and he taps his hands on the steering wheel nervously as he tries not to think about all the ways this horrible idea can blow up in his face. Marco might not want to see him. Marco might be staying over somewhere else. Marco might not have anything to eat and Mario might starve. But. Marco's injured. And whether he likes it or not, Mario's the only one who knows how to make him feel better. 

He leaves a message for Mülli as he parks his car in the airport, lets him know he'll be out of town until the next evening, asks him to cover for him at practice. Pep will probably make him do laps for missing one practice, but it's worth it if it helps Marco. 

He smiles at all the people who recognize him at the airport, poses for a few quick pictures before he tries to explain that he'll miss his flight if he sticks around for longer. He might be imagining it, but he thinks they all look a little happier than usual to see him, their smiles wider when they notice him. It's probably his narcissism taking over, and he just dismisses it all before he continues his sprint. He makes it to the gate at the last possible second, earning a few glares from his fellow first-class passengers, but he just winks at this old woman's phenomenal sneer and takes his seat, pushing it back and getting comfortable as he loses himself in his playlist.

He's in Dortmund a little over an hour later, and he finds himself sweating when he's outside the airport. It just hit him again what he's really about to do, how badly it call all go to shit, but he still hails a cab, still gives the driver the address he knows by heart. If the cabbie recognizes him, he shows no sign of it, and Mario's especially grateful. 

Before he knows it, the cab's coming to a slow before it stops completely, and when Mario looks out the window, he finds himself in front of Marco's house, the midday sun shining especially bright in the sky. He leaves the driver a generous tip and takes his sweet time getting off, standing for a few minutes in front of the house, staring at the open gate and all the different cars lined up in the parking lot. All of them belong to Marco, Mario's relieved to see, and he finally forces his feet to move, taking slow but sure steps towards the front door. 

He lingers for another few minutes there, fiddling with the keys in his hand, tracing the one Marco gave him what seems like forever ago, and wondering if he should use it or just knock. Does he really want to unlock the door and find Marco making out with someone else on the couch? He'd rather give whoever it is the chance to hide their exposed genitals before he steps into the house, so knocking it is.

He stuffs his key chain into the front pocket of his duffel and fists his hand, getting ready to gently rap his knuckles on the door when said door swings open suddenly, and Marco's standing in front of him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, in a thin white shirt and light gray sweatpants. He looks dazed, his hair standing up at the most awkward places - Mario wants nothing more than to run his fingers through it right now - and he can see the bandage peeking out from under Marco's shirt sleeve.

Mario knows he probably doesn't look any better, his hair a mess and his eyes bruised like he was just napping in a functioning washing machine.

"Wha- what are you doing here?" Marco finally asks, stumbling a little before letting the words out, smiling and frowning and smiling again, a look of surprise permanently taking over his face.

"I- um, heard about your shoulder," Mario mumbles, pointing unnecessarily at Marco's wrapped shoulder and rolling his eyes at his own stupidity. "Were you on your way out?" He adds as an afterthought, because Marco just pulled the door open before Mario even managed to knock and maybe this was a really bad idea. "Or maybe you have someone in there?"

"No!" Marco yells a little too loudly, reaching out for a second like he's trying to stop Mario from leaving, before pulling his arm back and hugging it to his chest. "I mean, I just heard some commotion outside the door... so..."

"Right," Mario nods, something fluttering in his chest, something akin to hope. He doesn't want to believe Marco's happy to see him, but Marco's eyes, while confused and slightly squinty, are looking at him like he hasn't done in a long time. Like he used to when they were still together and Mario did something especially stupid, amusement, wonder and affection rolling off him in waves. It scares Mario, especially that last word, but it's the good kind of scary. Like, his-first-kiss-with-Marco scary, palms sweaty and knees weak and stomach in knots, but he wouldn't have it any other way. "Okay, well," Mario continues, taking a deep breath before pushing his way into the house and dropping his duffel on the floor near the coat rack, fishing in its front pocket for his wallet and phone before straightening up and walking over to Marco's key rack. He can feel Marco's confused stare on his back, can feel the tiny hairs on his neck standing up and his skin prickling, but he tries to shake it off as he takes his time scanning the car keys before picking out the keys to the Jeep. "You're on your way out now," he announces, walking past Marco and standing half outside the door. Marco makes no move to leave, standing his ground and miraculously looking even more confused than before. "Come on," Mario urges, pulling slightly on his elbow and Marco shakes himself out of it. "We don't have all day."

Mario starts walking out and is both relieved and surprised to see Marco pull on a yellow zipper hoodie off his coat rack before he picks up his phone off the hallway counter and follows him wordlessly. He wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans, walking over to the driver's side and opening the door. Marco's right behind him, so close that he nearly knocks into him before taking a step back. 

"You're driving?" Marco asks, raising his eyebrows.

"Well, you're not going to drive with a bad arm," Mario counters matter-of-factly, arching his eyebrows and staring Marco down. This is one argument he's not going to lose.

"It's just a dislocated shoulder, Sunny, I'll be fine," Marco tries, stepping closer and reaching out for the key, but Mario's reflexes are as quick as ever, despite being thrown off by his old nickname, and he yanks his hand away as soon as Marco's fingers touch it. 

"No way, Marco," he insists, tightening his sweaty fist around the key. "You don't even have a license."

"Actually," Marco hesitates, smirking shyly and reaching out for something in his pocket. "I do," he adds, opening his wallet and pulling out a pale pink card with his picture on it. 

Mario stares for few seconds, his eyes lighting up as he examines the license up close, and he doesn't remember the last time he felt so proud and heartbroken at the same time. Because Marco got his license. He finally got his fucking shit together and got his license, so he can now drive legally and Mario doesn't have to rib him about it every week. Except that Mario never knew. Because Marco never told him. Because they're broken up, for fuck's sake. 

"When did you get this?" Mario asks as he runs his thumb over Marco's picture. He should be telling him he's proud of him or looking more happy than he does, but this is the first thing that comes out of his mouth.

"Last week," Marco admits unsurely, frowning a little, his eyebrows knitting together as he looks down, seemingly fascinated by his shoes for a moment. "I was gonna tell you, but I didn-"

"No, it's fine," Mario dismisses with a wave of his arm when Marco looks up again, handing him the license back and trying not to look like he just overfed his goldfish. "Congratulations." He stops talking for a moment, wondering if he should continue. He came all the way over from Munich for Marco. He might as well be honest with him. "I'm-um, I'm proud of you," he admits, staring at Marco's bandaged shoulder because he can't look at his face right now. 

It's all very quiet for a moment before Marco speaks again, and when Mario looks at him, there's a glint of something in his eyes.

"Thank you." 

"Right," Mario nods, trying to act casual, "you're still not driving. You don't even know where we're going."

"Ugh, fine," Marco concedes, flashing Mario an impressive bitchface, taking a few steps back. His eyes move from Mario's face to his chest back and forth before his lips pull up to one side in that lopsided smirk that drives Mario absolutely crazy, and Mario feels himself heat up even before Marco speaks. "Nice shirt, by the way," he adds before disappearing behind the car.

Mario stares after him for a moment, his eyes blurring before he shakes himself out of it and looks down at his black shirt. 

_Oh, fuck._

Of all the fucking clothes he owns. Of all the extravagant shit he has, all the obnoxiously expensive, dubiously swaggy, frivolous designer shirts he stores in his gigantic closet, it had to be this one. 

_Of-fucking-course._

The one day he doesn't check himself in the mirror before he leaves the house. The day he decides to get his shit together and fly half across the country to make things right with Marco, he shows up on  _his_  doorstep in one of  _his own fucking designs_ , that obnoxious white monkey with its shitty hands covering its eyes.

It all makes so much fucking sense now, the overexcited looks all those fans were giving him at the airport.

He tugs a little too harshly at the sleeves of his shirt, pulls them over his knuckles and brings his fists to his face, hiding his eyes from the world and hoping to disappear for a moment. The irony is not lost on him that he probably looks like that fucking monkey right about now, and he pulls his arms away and turns to jump into the Jeep. 

Marco's already in his seat when Mario closes the door, that infuriating smirk still on his face as Mario jump starts the car and buckles his seatbelt. 

"It's not even mine, okay?" Mario nearly yells when the silence becomes suffocating, turning the air conditioning on and checking his rearview mirror before backing out of the driveway.

"Oh yeah?" Marco teases, and Mario can hear that ridiculous smirk in his voice. 

"It's Mülli's. He forgot it yesterday when he left," Mario defends weakly, turning off the air conditioning because it's fucking cold why did he even turn it on in the first place? 

"Right," Marco nods exaggeratedly as Mario switches gears. "He left your house half-naked. I'm assuming he left you his horse, too?"

Mario only turns to stare at Marco for a second, squinting his eyes at him before turning back to the road and wondering why the hell he went through all of this trouble to come make this idiot feel better.

"Dickhead," he mutters under his breath, and it's loud enough for Marco to bark a laugh next to him. 

Mario can't even stop the smile that creeps up his face as he keeps his eyes on the road.

\-----

"What the fuck are we doing here?"

And yeah, that is definitely not the reaction Mario was hoping for when he got the genius idea to fly all the way from Munich to Dortmund and take Marco to IKEA. But then again, Marco was never particularly forthcoming about his unparalleled affection for IKEA.

The first time Mario took notice of it, he was still living in Dortmund. Marco had moved to his new apartment only a couple of weeks earlier and had apparently made it his life mission to go on as many IKEA trips as possible. Mario worked it out on their fourth trip, and after that, he never questioned him when Marco took him to IKEA to shop for everything from kitchens to plungers. 

The ride from Marco's house to the nearest IKEA was a short one - but then again, it's Dortmund, the ride from Marco's house to _anywhere_ is a short one - and to Mario's greatest relief, there was very little awkwardness to it. Marco just turned on the radio and propped his legs up on the dashboard after the shirt incident, and they spent the ride signing along to the RnB station, slightly off-key and getting few words right but neither caring about it, almost like it used to be.

"Well, you, um, need a new cutting board, and we didn't get around to buying you one when I was still living here," Mario shrugs as he turns off the engine, trying to come up with a valid excuse for doing this. And yeah, okay, "valid" is probably pushing it a little too far, but it's an excuse at least. "Unless you got one after I left? In which case, we could leave." 

He's giving him an out that he knows he'll never take. It's IKEA, after all. Marco's entire football career could depend on whether he leaves IKEA right now or not, and he'd probably still choose IKEA. 

"No, I actually haven't," Marco says expectedly, unbuckling his seatbelt and jumping out of the car before Mario can object any further. 

Mario smiles as he jumps out of the jeep, locking the car and stuffing the key in his front pocket. He catches his reflection in the window and tugs at his hair a little, trying to make it a stand a little more upright. It refuses to cooperate and insists on making Mario look like a fourth grade science teacher even as Mario frustratingly tries to fix it. Mario feels some commotion and looks to his right to find Marco standing next to him with a crooked smile on his face.

"Here," Marco whispers, reaching out with both hands and using one of them to pull Mario's own away from his hair. He uses the other one to comb through the rebellious locks with his fingers, keeping Mario's hand firmly in his. "Let me."

Mario thinks he might faint for a moment. He really, really believes that. 

He's always had a thing for people playing with his hair, always appreciated it when they did, and blackmailed his brothers and even Ann on more than one occasion to do it. There was just something about it that both relaxed him and set his body on edge, something addicting about all the contradicting sensations it put him through. Which were somehow magnified whenever Marco did it. 

And now, Marco's doing it, in a public parking lot at that, and Mario can already feel his knees ready to give out. That, coupled with Marco's fingers that are unconsciously tracing his wrist, and Mario's pretty sure he's going to pass out any minute now. He can't help it that his eyes roll in the back of his skull when Marco tugs especially hard on one of the locks, and he's only pulled out of his stupor when he hears a quiet chuckle next to him. 

His head's still tingling when Marco finally pulls his hand away and lets go of Mario's wrist, and Mario can only stare dumbly at him before turning to check his reflection again. His hair might not be photo shoot material night now, but it's marginally better than it was before, pushed back into a semi-fauxhawk. 

Marco turns his back and starts walking ahead of him, and Mario finally fully shakes himself out of it and follows him to the main entrance. 

Mario wordlessly heads into the nearest measurement booth as soon as he's in the store, grabbing a dozen mini IKEA pencils and handing Marco half of them before grabbing a few of the blank fill-out reference forms, some measuring tapes and a couple of catalogs. 

Marco just nods at him with resolute approval before making his way up the escalator. Mario can see him prop one of the pencils up behind his ear, wearing the measuring ribbons around his neck like some rich man's satin scarf and stuffing the rest along with the tiny forms in his pockets. 

He follows the stenciled arrows littering the ground as soon as he's up, before heading towards the nearest cubicle, a red and white living room, and plopping down on the couch.

"Comfy," he mutters looking like a content cat, feeling up the material as Mario settles on the beanbag to his left. 

"The walls are too white," Mario shrugs after a moment as he pushes himself off the gooey chair with some difficulty, "they'll get too dirty way too fast."

"I suppose you can always cover them with red velvet drapes," Marco remarks off-handedly.

Mario stumbles a little, nearly knocking his head against a towering white lamp, before he turns back to glare at Marco behind him. It does nothing to erase the annoying smirk off his face, and Mario wonders not for the first time what he's doing here helping this jerk. 

He skips the next two cubicles and enters the third one, scanning the shelf of Swedish books and trying to decipher the writing on the spines. He can see that a lot of them have the word "bygga" in the title, and while Mario has little to no clue what it means, he warms up to the word, something a little swaggy about it that makes him want to use it. 

Marco's leaning on his good shoulder on the side of the cubicle when Mario looks back at him, a contemplative look on his face that both scares and excites Mario. He feels himself flush as he walks past him and skips a few cubicles until he finally reaches the first bathroom. He doesn't even think about it when he climbs over the side of the bathtub and lies down in it, propping his elbows up and resting his head against the back. Marco follows him in a few seconds later, pushing the toilet seat open and settling on the ceramic chair. Mario smiles at him, thankful he's got the decency to at least keep his pants up, but the old woman who follows them in a minute later doesn't seem to agree. She gasps in horror when she spots them, their fully-clothed but clearly scandalous behavior shocking her, before making her way out in surprisingly lithe fashion for such an old one. 

That's another thing Mario appreciates about IKEA. Not once in all the times they've been here before, did they get recognized. Not inside the store, at least. Sometimes, in the parking lot, but for the most part, it seems the prospect of Swedish furniture is a lot more exciting than two grown professional footballers trying out beds and toilet seats. 

Mario pops his mouth and gets up after a few minutes, deeming it enough time to judge the quality of a bathtub. He decides he likes it. He and Marco each exit from a different door, and Mario finds himself in a closet of sorts, taking a moment to admire the hideous red satin shirt hanging entirely alone in the closet before continuing his way out. There's a bedroom in the next cubicle, and Mario looks up to find Marco entering at the same time from another doorway. 

They stare at the purple throw on the bed before looking at each other for a moment. They both start moving at the same time, crossing the room and walking past one another until they're on opposite sides of the room, diving pretty much at the same time on the bed, each one on his usual side. 

They lie down on their backs for some time, staring at the ceiling before Mario feels some movement on his left side, and when he looks over at Marco, his whole body is now turning and angled towards him, knees folded and his good shoulder pressed against the mattress, hand supporting his head. 

Randomly enough, the first thought that pops into Mario's head is how badly a body language expert would misinterpret their current situation. They'd probably come up with some bullshit about how Marco's body is angled towards Mario, about how it means he's dedicated to him, and how Mario's turned body means he doesn't reciprocate, about how he's forcing his head to turn Marco's way. Truth is, Mario has to stay this way because he's pretty sure if he turned right now, he might scoot close enough to Marco to pounce on him in public, or do something much, much worse, like kiss him. That body language expert trying to butcher their skewed non-relationship can suck it. 

"Why are you here, Mario?" Marco whispers, his eyes focused on Mario's own.

Mario lowers his eyes for a second, looking at Marco's fingers splayed out near his elbow, and is tempted to push his arm out until they're touching. He doesn't, meeting Marco's eyes again instead. He can't exactly throw some bullshit excuse like "I was just in town" at him, and maybe it's about time he started being honest with Marco. 

"I heard about your shoulder," Mario says in a low voice, shrugging lightly. "I wanted to make sure you were okay," he continues, staring at Marco's fingers again. "I know it's just a dislocated shoulder, but I bet it still sucks."

"It's not freak-ankle-injury-that's-made-me-miss-the-World-Cup suck level," Marco shrugs, dragging his hand a little closer to Mario's elbow, but still not close enough for them to touch. "But it definitely doesn't feel too good," he agrees. "Still. Don't you, like, have training or something?" 

"I'll just miss one session," Mario dismisses. "It's not like it'll affect my playing chances much. We're playing Schalke so Pep will probably tattoo Messi's name on his ass before he starts me."

"I thought he already did that," Marco wonders, raising his eyebrows and earning a smile out of Mario. "Tattoo Messi's name on his ass, that is."

"He probably did," Mario agrees, chuckling lightly. "Point is, Schalke are currently not in the bottom two of the league table, so chances of me starting are slim to none."

"Well, if the rumors are true, then that bag of shit will be gone by the end of the season and Kloppo will be there before you know it. You'll get a chance to show everyone how good you are."

"And you won't hate Kloppo for coaching Bayern?" Mario asks, unable to hide his genuine surprise.

"Not if it means it'll help you feel better," he admits.

Mario swallows thickly, staring at Marco for the longest time before moving his elbow until they're finally touching.

He doesn't even have time to enjoy any of it, to think about what it might possibly mean, because at that exact moment, a tiny head of ginger hair comes barreling into the room, running from one doorway to the other and making Mario and Marco jump so far apart like the they've just been set on fire.

He clears his throat as he hastily makes his way off the bed, belatedly remembering to make sure Marco hasn't worsened his condition by nearly falling off the bed. He seems to be doing okay, a sheepish smile on his face, his cheeks tinted a faint pink that surely matches Mario's face, his fingers rubbing his sore shoulder soothingly.

"You're good?" Mario asks just to make sure, because you never know. After all, he didn't come all this to anger Marco's injury.

"Yeah," Marco nods lightly, flashing him another smile as he follows him past a few cubicles. "I'm great."

\-----

They spend a little under an hour in the showrooms, testing out every kitchen counter, utility closet and garden chair in sight. The conversation isn't as serious after that, somehow much more at ease. Mario finds himself chuckling a lot more easily and openly at Marco's constant unnecessary commentary, catches Marco staring at him from the corner of his eye on more than one occasion, and is even giddy to see the return of the Mario-smile. Because yes, no matter what anyone else will tell him, Mario knows Marco has a special smile he flashes when and only when Mario's around. And the last time he did so was well over a few months ago.

They linger a little when they reach the mirrors, their vanity on full display as they proceed to check their reflection in every available surface, spending over fifteen minutes perfecting their hair as they make their way through the section.

Mario's stomach rumbles as if on cue as soon as they reach the kitchenware section, and Marco laughs amusedly, squeezing Mario's hand lightly as he picks up the first set of chopping boards he finds, a pair of multi-sized green and blue ones made out of that weird thick rubbery material Mario will never figure out.

"Let's go grab some food," Marco tells him, walking past him and grinning when Mario's eyes light up, pausing for only a second before taking off after him.

They stop at the cash register to pay for the chopping boards, and Mario chivalrously insists he pays for them, a sort of get-well-soon present. Marco only laughs when Mario buys one of those oversized yellow and blue IKEA bags and throws the tiny boards in it, handing him the nearly empty bag.

They grab four trays and a trolley as soon as they're in the food cue, arranging the trays so that they're lined up on the different racks, throwing some empty plates and some cutlery on the bottom shelf before they start at the dessert cue. They look at eachother for only a moment, nodding in understanding before reaching out and blindly grabbing two desserts each - cinnamon rolls, a woodland berry strudel, a Daim chocolate pie and some custard - and moving along the cue, grabbing some juices and a couple water bottles from the fridge on their way. Mario stares at the shelf full of yogurt cups and throws two on one of the trays, just in case. They continue their way over to the main dishes where Marco orders a full portion of meatballs and potato puree and Mario asks for those ridiculous heart-shaped waffles. They grab the plates the servers offer them, one of them staring at them for a minute longer like he recognizes them, and Mario just throws him a smile before following Marco to the bread cart. He grabs one of the plates off the lower tray and offers it to Marco, keeping one for himself. He throws a few hundred pretzels on his own and watches Marco fill the other dish with an array of different breads. They throw in some butter and jam and fill another two bowls with salad and some mushroom soup before deciding that's plenty enough.

Marco settles the bill before they wheel their cart to one of the corner tables. They arrange the food along the large table before sitting across from each other and proceed to attack their meal.

They talk all the way through lunch, laughing as Marco tells Mario about the one time he managed to string Pierre along with him to IKEA, about how he was dragging his feet the entire time and only found his calling when they made it into the children's showroom, Auba spending hours rifling through the stuffed toys and ending up with an armful of them. Marco had thought they were for Curtis before Pierre admitted that only the stuffed football was for his son. The rest were, well, for him. Because yes, Pierre-Emerick Aubameyang, son of the Gabonese football legend and possibly the fastest player currently in the Bundesliga, owns a collection of stuffed animals that he actively seeks to add to. That's more insight than Marco had bargained for when he'd asked for his company on that day. 

They take their sweet time sampling the desserts, Marco enjoying the cheap cinnamon rolls the most, and Mario stores the two remaining pretzels in a napkin and stuffs them in Marco's oversized bag before they clear out their table, stacking the trays in the designated area and leaving the place.

They get stopped by a few fans on their way to the parking lot, and Mario surprises even himself with how easy it is to indulge them with autographs and pictures, trying not to linger on Marco's raised eyebrows when Mario readily flanks one of the three girls on one side and waits for Marco to do the same.

The ride to Marco's home is quiet, Marco staring out the window the entire time. Mario tries not to panic, wants to remain calm as he tries to guess the million thoughts that could potentially be running through the other boy's mind, and he's so caught up in his mind that they make it to the house before he knows it. He gets out of the car, hesitantly following Marco towards the front door, awkwardly stopping in the doorway when Marco turns in his hallway to look at him. 

"Hey," Marco starts, throwing his keys and phone on the counter and leaving his IKEA bag on the floor. "Thanks for today. I had a great time."

Oh.

This is not what Mario was expecting. It sounds like Marco wants him to leav-

 _Oh_. 

"Su- Sure," Mario stutters for a second before he gets the word out, trying not to let his disappointment show. "I'm glad you're okay."

He can see Marco squint a little at him, his brow furrowing as he looks at Mario before following his line of vision to his abandoned duffel. 

"You're going to your parents' place, right?" Marco asks, a hint of something in his voice.

"My parents," Mario repeats, nodding and walking a little further inside the house to grab his bag. It feels like someone is punching him repeatedly in the stomach, and it's taking a remarkable effort to keep it together right now. "Right."

"Mario," Marco says slowly, taking one step towards him, his voice low and almost shaky. "Your parents do know you're in Dortmund, right?"

"No," Mario admits, because there's no point in lying. Plus, he just doesn't have the energy to do it anymore. He grabs the duffel and hoists it over his shoulder. "My mom doesn-"

He can't get another word out because before he can understand what's happening, Marco shoves him against the wall, pushing the duffel off his shoulder and hesitating for a figment of a second before pressing their lips together.

And fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_. 

Marco's lips are on his, one of his hands on Mario's waist and the other on his cheek and it feels like coming home and a thousand butterflies in his stomach and fireworks exploding in the sky and violins playing in the background and that fucking missing puzzle piece that just found its place and every single one of those damn clichés shoved together in a tiny jar and stored in Mario's ribs and he wants to raise his fucking leg in the air but the wall behind him's blocking him.

Before Mario can freak out even more about this, Marco pulls back to look at him, his lips slightly swollen and his face flushed, his eyes hooded even as he grins at him, looking down towards his leg.

"Why are you kicking my wall?"

Mario just laughs before fisting Marco's shirt in his hand and pulling him closer again.

"Your damn wall is cramping up my style," he mumbles against his lips, hungrily kissing him, and if he wraps his arms around him a little _too_ desperately, then fuck it.

Marco only laughs against his lips, hugging Mario closer to him and only moving to bury his face in his neck. Mario closes his eyes for a moment, just _feeling_ Marco all around him.

"Does this mean I don't have to go to my parents' place?"

Marco chuckles again, pulling back a little before meeting his mouth once more, kissing and licking and biting a little harshly on his lower lip.

"You're not leaving here until you absolutely have to. After all, I do believe you owe me a strip show."

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_"Where have you been, man? I've been trying to reach you all morning."_

_"Sorry. I had some... things, to, um, do."_

_"Things to do? The fuck are you on about? And what the fuck is that noise in the background?"_

_"Yeah, um. Things."_

_"Is that- is that Mario? Are you guys back together?"_

_"Let's just say Operation Sunny Side Up was a total success."_

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


End file.
